Divided We Fall
by Benigma
Summary: Dean returns from Hell, desperate to be reunited with Sam...but for a reason he never, ever thought possible. Dean/Sam/Bobby No Season 4 spoilers, I can wait! Warning: some parts of Ch. 1 a little intense. AU since Sn. 4 premiere.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is entry No. 2 from Wicked Wendy's World of Winchester...you guys were great about my first story, so it's your fault there's another one...lol!

Never written a chapter story before, hope I can...a) sustain it, b) keep it coherent, and c) get over my stage fright.

Grim **Warning:** First chapter's a little gruesome. (How could I _do _this to Dean??)

Funky **Disclaimer:** I do not own Sam and Dean Winchester. But I _did _sell my soul to them...

Enigmatic **Summary:** Dean returns from Hell, desperate to be reunited with Sam...but for a reason he never, _ever _thought possible.

**No Season 4 Spoilers** - I am forced to take full responsibility for what comes outta my head.

_Note to hitchcock-starlet: It's up! And yours came first! Now, if our stories start going along the same line, we may have to put some stock into this supernatural business..._ ;)

* * *

_**If Heaven and Hell decide**_

_**That they both are satisfied**_

_**Illuminate the NO's on their vacancy signs**_

_**If there's no one beside you**_

_**When your soul embarks**_

_**Then I'll follow you into the dark.**_

_**- Death Cab for Cutie, "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"**_

**Chapter One**

Dean closed his eyes. He longed for escape behind his eyelids, but there was none to be had from the myriad of black chains that criss-crossed in every possible direction. Above him, below him, to either side, thousands upon thousands of them stretched into what was likely infinity.

It was much darker here than the myth ever allowed. There was no hellfire, no red-skinned, pitchfork devil. Lightning crashed and sizzled across the endless sky, illuminating patches of writhing, roiling, yellow air, thick with the stench of brimstone. The myth did allow for that.

There was no perception of time; nothing to differentiate between day and night, no way to ascertain whether a day had passed, or a week, or a month. There was only the here, and the now, and he despised both.

He struggled to keep his mind numb to the nightmarish events that had brought him here - the deal, Lilith's attack, the hellhounds - because only one thing mattered to him: Sam. Dean was desperate to know whether Sam was alive or dead; whether his sacrifice had done anything other than allow them to spend the past year together.

_'Even if that's all the good that came of it,'_ he thought grimly, _'it was worth it.'_

Lilith knew, of course. Lilith could tell him, but instead, she took perverse delight in taunting him with _"Maybe he's alive, maybe he isn't." _Dean took perverse delight in the thought of gouging out her eyes and feeding them to the hellhounds.

He had imagined the worst, expected it even, but his earthly ideologies could not have conceived of her brand of cruelty...her 'punishments'...even the way she kept him restrained in her highly creative prison. He was suspended flat on his back amidst the immense network, his wrists and ankles each shackled to a heavy black chain. There was something else, something almost too gruesome to think about: the bulky steel hooks that pierced through his left side and right collarbone area. God, she really had it in for him...

Dean's eyes snapped open, closing the door to his thoughts. His body had been immobile for what seemed like a very long time, and the need for movement of any kind was overwhelming. He began flexing his fingers, coaxing them through the ache and stiffness until he could actually feel them again. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He did the same with his right leg, rotating the foot, tensing and releasing the large muscles with as much strength as he could manage. He switched to the left. With the first contraction of the muscles, a surge of pain shot through the deep gashes in his leg, causing him to cry out. It hurt like, well...hell.

"_Son-of-a-bitch!_" He breathed hard and fast through his teeth.

"_What's the matter, Dean? Can't get enough_?" Her derisive, disembodied voice came at him from all sides and reverberated in his head.

"_Shut up!_" he snarled in response. There was a pause.

"_Is that any way to talk to me, Dean_?"

"_No! No...I didn't mean to_."

A dreadful silence followed. Letting his temper loose was usually not advisable. He waited apprehensively, knowing that she was weighing his words, trying to decide how much offense she would take at his insolence.

"_Lilith?_" he breathed. "_Lilith...don't. Please_."

He fervently hoped she would be appeased. He was met with silence for a little longer, then came her emotionless reply:

"_I'm sorry, Dean_."

"_NO!_"

His whole body arched as the huge hooks pulled upwards. He drove his teeth together and clenched his fists so hard, his arms shook. Strangled cries escaped his throat as the still-open wounds in his chest, his side, his leg, were stretched wide. He heard and felt a methodical snapping as she shattered his ribs, one at an agonizing time. The pain was beyond anything he had ever known.

As muscle ripped from tendon, and bones continued to snap, he threw back his head and screamed: long, drawn-out howls of unbearable suffering. Blood gushed from his leg and his side. Scarlet liquid from the pool inside his chest streamed into his throat, nearly choking him as he coughed and spewed blood everywhere.

"_Lilith! PLEASE!!_"

The hooks pulled tighter. His agony-filled screams did nothing to move her; the pain only intensified until he completely gave in to it. He screamed he was sorry, and begged her over and over to please, please stop.

As suddenly as it had begun, the hook chains went slack. His body collapsed. He coughed again and spat out more blood. Each breath he took in was released as a tortured gasp. His eyes closed and his head thrashed weakly from side to side as tears squeezed through his tightly-shut lids. Then his breath caught. "_No!_" he rasped. "_No!_"

He gritted his teeth. '_It'll stop...just hang on...think of Sam_,' his brain commanded. '_Think of Sam_...!' He forced himself to concentrate. From the blackness of his mind, bright images emerged of Sam, smiling, laughing, looking at him with that worried frown that Dean hated, but would give anything to experience again. The pain eased a little, and he breathed more deeply. Sam was safe, he had to be, Sam would go on and continue to fight. Without him. It's what he had bargained for. '_I did it for you, Sam...'_

It was over, for now. As always, she would make sure that the bones mended, that the muscles healed, that the gashes diminished...keeping him at the ready until the next time she was angry, or bored, or spiteful. Dean pushed away the horror and let the memories of his brother take him far away from the here, and the now.

**A/N:** I know, first one's a shortie. You like?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Bobby poured a cup of steaming coffee, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table. "Mornin', Sam." Sam greeted him with a stony expression.

"_Uh, oh,_" Bobby thought. "_There's a snit-fit brewin_'."

"You son-of-a-bitch."

Bobby's half-raised coffee cup stopped in mid-air. He raised his eyebrows instead. "You wanta watch your mouth, son."

"You drugged me."

"Come again?"

"Those were sleeping pills you gave me last night."

"An' what if I did?"

"I asked if you had something for a headache!"

"Is yer headache gone?"

"That's not the point, Bobby!" Sam's face was taut, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Bobby set down his cup. "Sam," he said gently. "You hadn't slept fer three days, goin' on four."

"That's not your concern!" Sam snapped. He pushed away from the table, stood up and began pacing restlessly.

"It _is _my concern, Sam!" Bobby exclaimed. "Fer god's sake, how could it not be!"

"Well I don't want it to be!" Sam stubbornly declared.

Bobby cocked his head. "Yer sayin' I can't care about ya?"

"Bobby - " The tall young man stopped pacing and placed his hands flat on the table. He looked intently into the older man's face. "I don't want you to look out for me, okay? I don't want you to take care of me. And I sure as hell don't want you to keep telling me this isn't my fault!"

Now Bobby stood up. "Sam, this is insane! You keep wantin' to blame yerself fer what happened. You think that'll make this any easier?"

"I don't know!" Sam shouted. "But if I had stopped Jake when I first had the chance, Dean wouldn't have made that deal! He'd still be alive!"

"Sam, Dean made that deal on his own - "

"I don't wanna hear it, Bobby!" Sam interjected. He levelled a scowl at the older man. "Dean made that deal because of me," he said bitterly. "He did it because that's what he'd been taught all his life - look out for Sammy, take care of Sammy, do everything for Sammy, but don't look out for yourself, Dean! Don't even give a damn whether you live or die, 'cause it's all about Sammy!"

"Sam - "

"I had a year, Bobby," Sam cut in. "An entire year...and...," his voice began to waver. "...and nothing..."

He paused and took a deep breath, then he said determinedly, "Well it's not going to be about Sammy any more, Bobby. It's about Dean now."

Bobby said nothing as Sam turned and strode out the front door. There was nothing he could say. He didn't even need to ask where Sam was going. Bobby already knew.

The last three days had played out like the same nightmare of one year ago. Only then, it was Dean who wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, and wouldn't even hear of burying Sam's body. This time, at least, Bobby had been able to convince Sam otherwise. There were no more deals to be made.

They had brought Dean's body back here, to the salvage yard. Sam had insisted on helping Bobby clean up the blood, even though his hands had shaken the whole time, and he had gone nearly as pale as the ashen hue of Dean's skin. Sam had swallowed hard several times while swabbing blood from the pendant Dean had worn for fifteen years, the one Sam had given him as a Christmas present. He had run his fingers over it as he stared mournfully into his brother's face. He had briefly considered removing it and wearing it himself as a token of remembrance, but he had quickly decided against that. The pendant was a part of Dean, and it was going with him.

Together, they had carefully wrapped Dean's body in a white sheet, then a green tarpaulin. They had chosen a far corner behind the house, shaded by aspens and made colourful by a wild rose bush. Sam would dig down no further than three feet. Bobby had respectfully argued the possibility of nocturnal animals, but Sam was insistent. It was as though he couldn't bear to have Dean's physical remains any further away from him than they had to be.

They had raided a pile of broken paving stones, and collected enough large pieces to lay over the fresh earth. Sam had sat there, silent and still, for hours afterwards. When the daylight had faded away and his clothes were damp with dew, he had felt Bobby's strong hand on his shoulder. Only then had he allowed himself to leave his brother's grave.

As the door shut behind Sam, Bobby dropped back into his chair and rested his elbows on the table. He was weary with grief himself. He meant what he had said to Dean, that family didn't end with blood. Those boys had grown on him like crazy since John's death.

For all his faults, and unorthodox parenting, John had fostered a closeness between these two like Bobby had never seen in all his life. Bobby was also one of the very few people who had come to see beyond the tough exteriors of the two young hunters. They were an indomitable force when united in a cause, but they were also the chinks in each other's armour. One would go through hell or high water for the other until they were back at status quo: Sam and Dean. Dean and Sam.

But now Dean was gone, and Sam was hurting so badly it was painful to watch. "That kid's a powderkeg," Bobby thought grimly. Dean was in hell, and Sam was quickly descending into his own. Status quo.

Bobby's thoughts were shattered by Sam's panic-stricken yell from the backyard.

"_Bobby!_"

He leaped up from his chair and bolted through the door and around the house. Sam had his back to him, and was standing stock-still, looking down. Three long strides later, Bobby slowed to a stop and just stood, looking in Sam's direction. His mouth dropped open in disbelief at what he was seeing. Sam turned to him with a look of pained bewilderment. Bobby managed the last few steps that brought him to Sam's side. He couldn't say a word, he just stared. A pile of stone slabs were scattered around a mound of dirt, exposing the rectangular, three-foot-deep hole. It was empty. Dean's body was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean was exhausted. He longed to sleep, to pass out, to lose himself in oblivion, but it just wouldn't happen. He wasn't sure if this was Lilith's doing, or one of the first rules of hell: No rest for the wicked.

And this was hell. The torture was horrible; unbearable when he was in the midst of it. But it would always end; never as soon as he would like, but it would end. What didn't end was the isolation, and a loneliness as brutal as anything Lilith could hand out. He had taken to singing out loud, humming, speaking to himself, or shouting at the top of his lungs just to hear a human voice, even if it was his own.

In the end, it would likely drive him crazy; that is, if Lilith would allow him to go crazy. He knew she had discovered his greatest fear, the one he would never tell, the one that would wake him up at night, the one that had driven him to keep Sam safe at any cost. He could face the most unspeakable monstrosities and sleep like a baby, but two little words scared him silly: being alone.

Now he was trapped in that fear, breathing it in, drowning in it, and nothing could save him but hope: the hope that Sam was alive and would find a way to get him out of here, to bring him back. There had to be a way to make things right. They both deserved that much.

* * *

Sky-splitting bursts of lightning repeatedly lit up the massive array of chains. Dean flinched at its ferocity, amazed that he hadn't yet been fried to a crisp. A brilliant flash followed by a metallic 'pop' caused him to turn his head quickly to the right. Far down the expanse of steel, the cable jungle seemed to merge into the writhing yellow clouds and misty shadows. He could just make out the spot where red-orange sparks fizzled on one of the chains.

'_Still too close for comfort', _Dean thought. As he watched, a second strike hit in nearly the same spot, illuminating the area for a few seconds. He furrowed his brow. Something small and dark seemed to be clinging to the chain. Furthermore, he could have sworn that he saw it move. He kept his eyes trained on the area. Soon, the chain and a dark 'lump' were silhouetted against a sustained flare of lightning. As he watched, the 'lump' seemed to bridge the gap from one chain to the next, and then to another.

"_What the hell...?"_ Dean murmured.

It wasn't his imagination. By the intermittent flashes, he could see a shapeless form weaving its way slowly, inexorably, towards him.

'_This can't be good_,' he thought grimly.

Dean watched for what seemed like hours, or days maybe; he couldn't be sure. As it worked its way closer, he grew more and more apprehensive. A thought, a tiny memory, stirred in the back of his mind. He struggled to bring it forward. Then Dean did something he thought he could never do here: he laughed, although ruefully. He remembered a short story he had taken in high school. A man...a prisoner of the Inquisition...tied to a cot. Above him, a gigantic curved blade swung back and forth, for days on end, dropping a hair's breadth with each arc. The man was forced to watch as his doom descended upon him. _The Pit and the Pendulum_.

'_Terrific_,' Dean thought. He was in the goddamned pit. And that bastard crawling towards him was every bit as menacing as a razor-edged pendulum. Edgar Allan Poe. Dean suddenly hated the guy.

* * *

Sweat beaded on Dean's upper lip. Whatever new torment Lilith had planned for him could hardly be worse than watching it coming. The creature was much blacker than the sky around it, and was nearly in full view. Its body curled, stretched, rose and dropped, picking its way along the chains in the same way a child might hop from stone to stone to cross a shallow waterway. Dean's breathing grew faster. He felt like spiderbait, trapped in an enormous web. His panic grew as relentlessly as the thing advanced.

It seemed to move more swiftly now, and he became fearfully aware of the size of it. It was _huge. _It easily bridged chains that had at least twelve to fourteen feet between them. Its path had angled upwards as it approached, and Dean was soon looking up at a massive black body entangled in the grid of chains above him. His heart pounded in his chest. He could barely breathe.

A streak of light glinted off the long, slick body as it dropped to the last chain separating it from Dean. A monstrous head darted from side to side, tongue flicking as it pinpointed its prey. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the thick, scaly body, its underbelly a putrid yellow. Unlidded, blood-red eyes with narrow green slits bored down at him. Its mouth stretched open above dripping fangs that could snap a person in two.

"_Oh my god..."_

Dean was frozen in horror. He couldn't look away as the serpentine body zig-zagged back, its piercing eyes locked onto his. His heart hammered wildly. The creature's head shot downwards.

"_NOOO!!_" Dean bellowed, as his eyes automatically clamped shut. He felt a weight on his chest and cried out, in dread of the razor-sharp fangs about to tear into his flesh...like the hellhound...

"_Dean._"

It was so incongruous; a soft voice calling his name amidst this nightmare. He slowly opened his eyes. "_What the...?!"_ He didn't know which was more shocking: the fact that the creature was gone, or the stunningly beautiful face that looked into his own.

She had huge green eyes that seemed to shimmer with a light of their own, and fair skin as smooth as a porcelain doll's. A hint of a smile turned up the corners of her tinted rosebud lips. Sleek hair of rich, deep auburn fell past her shoulders and framed her face with long, wispy bangs. She wore a black sleeveless top that hugged her body, and dark blue jeans that did the same. She was straddling his mid-section. Dean could feel his own expression of incredulity.

'_Sure,'_ he thought. _'This is every guy's fantasy - chained up in Hell with a gorgeous chick sitting on him...'_

She leaned forward so that soft strands of her hair brushed his cheek as her smile brightened. Dean could only stare, astonished.

"Well," she said lightly, "aren't you going to say anything?"

Dean blinked a few times to make sure his abject terror of a minute ago wasn't causing him to hallucinate. "That...thing," he said, his voice strained. He looked all around, half-expecting to see it coiled up and ready to strike. "Where did it go?"

Her green eyes met his. "Dean, really," she said, in a patronizing tone. "Do you think I'm not capable of shooing away a little pest like that?"

A frown crossed his face. "Who are you?" he asked, fairly certain of the answer.

She leaned in closer. "I told you I liked being all grown up and pretty."

"Lilith."

She giggled. "In the flesh."

Dean wasn't normally at a loss for words. Perhaps it was because there was _too _much he wanted to say, and it all bottlenecked somewhere in his throat. Like all the additional names he had for her, every one of them appropriate for this place. Like what the hell was she doing here without at least a whip and some carving knives - for her pleasure, not his. Like get me the hell down from here and tell me if my brother's alive! But the repercussions...she had left him alone for long enough that his wounds were nearly healed. He kept it all firmly behind his teeth - for now.

She plopped an elbow down on his chest, and cupped her chin in her hand. "So? Cat got your tongue?" she asked mischievously.

He couldn't bring himself to believe that she was here just to chat, but at least now, he had an appropriated body he could deal with, rather than a detached voice. Hostility overtook the intimidation.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm having the time of my afterlife?"

"Well, I was thinking you might say, 'Hello, Lilith. Thank you for saving me from the big, bad snake."

Dean suspected he was still looking it squarely in the eyes. At the very least, she had set it on him to begin with.

"Hello Lilith. Thank you for saving me from the big, bad snake. Now get off me." he said caustically.

"That's not very gracious of you," she said evenly, at the same time poking her elbow harder into his not-quite-healed chest.

Dean's eyes were icy green as he glared up at her. "Get off me. Please."

"Why?" she laughed. "I like it here."

She sat up straighter and looked slowly and deliberately at the chains securing him. "Besides...," her glistening eyes penetrated his and her voice deepened, "...you're in no position to give me orders."

He ignored her. "Is Sam alive?"

Her expression changed to an amused grin. "The burning question. I could tell you but...this just wouldn't be hell if I didn't leave you hanging," she said coyly.

The hostility fell prey to simmering anger. "Then tell me this," Dean said flatly. "How much fun is it to rip someone apart and bust up their bones?"

She casually tossed her hair. "Not as much as you might think."

Dean stared at her. With what she had put him through already, and with literally no end in sight, she should have been gloating with delight over his misery and threatening him with more dire things to come. A wry grin crossed his face.

"Okay, I get it. You mean it only gets worse from here, and that's when the real party starts, right?"

"Not exactly," she answered. Her hand caressed his cheek "I mean it's not easy to hurt someone like you, Dean."

He was caught off guard, by her answer, and also... His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. Demons lied, all the time. This demon/woman had likely killed his brother. Damn the logic that presumed she would be throwing it in his face, relishing in Sam's dying moments if she had. He bitterly remembered the crossroads demon, how she had taunted him about his father. She had probably been lying, but how was he to know? Dean scowled. Lilith was toying with him, messing with his head. She was a demon, for Christ's sake. He shook her hand away.

"Right. It took almost nothing to piss you off, so, yeah, I can see how hard it must be for you. You're sick, do you know that?"

Lilith's whole demeanour darkened. She pressed her lips together, clasped his shoulders and dug in her fingernails. She brought her face close to his. "Let's not get nasty, Dean. It's spoiling the moment."

He winced at the sharpness of her nails, but he could have laughed in disbelief. "Let's get this straight. I've been hanging here like a piece of meat that you slice up whenever you feel like it. It's been a real blast, you know..._unnh_." Her fingernails sank deeper. "And you call me nasty..._unnggh_!" She was going to hit bone pretty soon. He gritted his teeth. "You're the Queen of Mean around here,_ bit_- "

She immediately slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed down hard. "Don't even say it! Don't say _anything_ else!" she hissed. She gave him a fierce look. "Don't push it too far, Dean. You don't know when you're well off."

She released her grip on his shoulder and removed her hand from his mouth, then straightened back up. Dean's eyes smouldered with rage. He hoped she could feel every malevolent intent stirring in their depths. But he said nothing. Better silent than sorry. After a moment she smiled, evilly, Dean thought.

"That's better." She bent forward until her face was only inches from his. "You see, I wanted to talk to you, Dean." She ran her fingernail from the bridge of his nose to the tip of his chin, and none too gently. "But unfortunately, I don't think you're ready." Although she spoke softly, there was no disguising her own displeasure.

Dean remained resolutely silent.

"What I do think," she continued, "is that you need to respect me a little more."

He couldn't hold back. "When hell freezes over, sweetheart."

A cold fire gleamed in her eyes. "What an interesting suggestion. How about a change of scenery?"

With both hands, she covered his eyes.

* * *

A/N - Wow, a huge thank-you to everyone for the terrific reviews! (!group hug!) (!happy dance!) You guys are great!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: A huge thank you to everyone who responded with such terrific reviews. I'm happy to be part of such a great community of people who love Supernatural as much as I do! :)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Bobby continued to stare at the empty grave.

"_What the hell_..." he murmured, his voice echoing the look of disbelief on his face.

"There are no footprints, Bobby, no animal tracks, no drag marks, nothing. I checked, it's clean!" Sam's words nearly tripped over each other. He shook his head. "I don't understand this, Bobby, what's going on?"

The distress in the kid's voice moved Bobby to action. "We'll see if EMF turns up anythin'." He gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze before hurrying back to the house.

Sam stepped back when Bobby returned with the meter, giving him room to do a full pass over the area. The needle was barely affected. Bobby moved in closer, scanning the mound of dirt and the scattered stones, then he hunched down and moved the meter around the interior of the gaping hole.

"Anything?" Sam asked anxiously.

Bobby sighed as he switched off the meter and stood up. "Nothin'."

Sam jammed his fists into his pockets and paced a few steps, then he kicked at the dirt, sending a spray of it into the empty grave. Bobby felt his frustration. He gripped Sam's arm. "We're gonna get to the bottom of this, Sam. We'll figure it out."

"_How_?" Sam yelled. "We don't even know where to start!"

Sam angrily looked down into what should have been Dean's last resting place, his thoughts in turmoil. What now? How much more would the Winchester family have to endure? Twenty-four years was enough. A rush of heat that began in the pit of his stomach spread throughout his body, leaving him breathing hard and clenching his fists even harder. He had had it. This was the final outrage that would be visited upon his family. He spoke in a low, tightly controlled voice: "I'm going to make things right, Dean. I promise you."

Bobby looked quickly at Sam. There was no mistaking the anger and dark determination in his voice, but there was also something else: an undertone of malice that was so uncharacteristic of him. Bobby couldn't exactly blame him, but too many times, he had seen what happened to people who were pushed past their limits, and it was never a pretty thing.

Sam turned abruptly, pulling his arm away from Bobby, and stalked toward the house. Bobby frowned as he watched Sam disappear around the corner. He lingered at the grave, stepping carefully around the mound of dirt and scattered stones. Sam was right. Where did they go from here when there was not a trace of evidence to suggest how Dean's body had been removed? Frustrated, he followed Sam's lead and returned to the house.

Sam didn't even look up when Bobby entered the kitchen. He was at the table, laptop open, eyes focused intently on the screen. EMF or not, he was going to find whatever information he could on grave-robbing entities, and no matter what it took, he was going to find some way, _any _way, of helping Dean. It was unlikely he would find anything new; he had searched a gazillion times in the last year, but he would look again. Maybe he had missed something.

Hours later, Bobby placed a plate of steaming food practically under his nose, but he had no appetite. However, he was raising his blood/caffeine level to dangerous proportions with pot after pot of coffee. He kept searching.

* * *

At long last, Sam rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He sighed heavily. It was into the early hours of the morning, and he had found nothing. Unless, of course, he counted the Mandaean _ghul_, a spirit who abused dead bodies, or its more common variant, the ghoul, a grave-robbing creature who fed on bodies, particularly those of children. Then there had been his personal favourite, a Utah man named John Baptiste, who, in 1862, had committed the most "damnable, diabolical, satanical, hellish sacrilege" ever on interred bodies: he stole their clothes.

Even worse, he had drawn another huge zero in his hunt for a way to bring back Dean.

Sam was exhausted, but he had to keep going. He pushed the laptop aside, crossed his forearms on the table, and lay his head down on them. Just for a few minutes, so he could think... He heard his own muffled cry a second before he snapped awake with a start. He sat up quickly. His heart was drumming in his ears, and his hair hung damp around his neck. He pushed back his chair, got up and wandered the kitchen aimlessly, the fingers of both hands enlaced in his hair as he tried to slow his heartbeat and his breathing. Whether he had been dreaming, or whether the strength of their bond had somehow transcended both realms, he had seen his brother. Shackled, hurt and alone, Dean was calling for him, screaming for him. Dean needed him and Sam would not waste another second.

More determined than ever, he went into the next room and returned to the kitchen with a large book, containing the manuscript _"Clavicula Salomonis"_, the Key of Solomon. He glanced at the clock on the wall as he placed it on the table. It was going on 3 a.m. He had slept for an hour, and that would have to do.

The Key of Solomon was a grimoire, a book of magic. It contained rituals for summoning spirits who would be compelled to do the bidding of the conjurer. All the information contained therein had supposedly been given to the Hebrew King Solomon by an angel of God, nearly three thousand years ago.

It belonged to Bobby, but Sam had perused it fairly often and with great interest. It was from this book that he had learned about the Devil's Trap, and why it was so effective at restraining demons. The book was both a beneficial and a dangerous tool. Of course, the intent was to invoke those spirits who would readily obey the commands given to them, but there was always the possibility that dark spirits would be drawn in. In fact, there were a few spells that called for the intentional summoning of these spirits. Sam flipped it open and began to read.

He scrutinized every sentence, every word. The information was abundant and precise. It covered everything from a simple explanation of the virtues of the planets, to the construction of the summoning circle, to the intense preparations, prayers and procedures required to entice the spirits to the summoner. Finally, it revealed how to construct and use the forty-four pentacles, powerful medallions that each had specific attributes and properties.

"_If thou invokest the spirits by virtue of these pentacles, they will obey thee without repugnance, and having considered them they will be struck with astonishment, and will fear them, and thou shalt see them so surprised by fear and terror, that none of them will be sufficiently bold to wish to oppose thy will." _

Sam thought of the Devil's Trap on Bobby's ceiling. It was composed of the Grand Pentacle, which served as a general summons to all spirits, and the fifth pentacle of Mars: _"It is terrible unto the demons, and at its sight and aspect they will obey thee, for they cannot resist its presence." _

Sam continued to read through the properties of the seven pentacles each of Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars. Some had value against adversaries, some would bring news from the spirit world, some were used to acquire glory, honour and riches, while some could incite war, wrath, and discord. He studied the first six pentacles of the Sun, then moved on to the seventh and final one. He perked up.

"_If any be by chance imprisoned or detained in fetters of iron, at the presence of this pentacle which should be engraved in Gold on the day and hour of the sun, he will be immediately delivered and set at liberty."_

Sam sat up straight. His dream. Dean had been chained. He promptly read the values of each of the five pentacles correlating to Venus and Mercury. He found nothing helpful. Only six remained, those pertaining to the Moon. First to fourth...nothing, and it was unlikely there would be anything else of significance. Forty-two down, and two to go. He sighed._ "Figure 53 - the fifth pentacle of the Moon -" _

"_It serveth to have answers in sleep. Its angel Iachadiel serveth unto destruction and loss, as well as unto the destruction of enemies. Thou mayest also call upon him by Abdon and Dalé against all phantoms of the night, and to summon the souls of the departed from Hades."_

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "..._summon the souls of the departed from Hades_..." He had failed to find a way to break the contract, and failed even to keep Dean's body safe. Could he...could he possibly set him free? If nothing else, could he release Dean's soul from the torment of Hell?

Sam re-read the passages several times, and each time, his excitement grew. How had he overlooked this? But then, for the past year he had been searching for a way to break the contract, not how to rescue a soul already in Hell. He had been confident it would never get to that point.

"_The day and hour of the sun_..._"_ The day was Sunday, obviously. He turned to the table of the planetary hours, and quickly determined that the hour of the sun fell between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m., a few hours later than that of the moon, which fell between 1:00 a.m. and 2:00 a.m. His eyes shone. This was possible. He could make both pentacles within hours of each other, and then, when they were ready...

He carefully read the instructions. He needed parchment - real parchment - that was new, clean, and exorcised, the proper ink colours: gold, red, silver, azure...he jotted down a list of other items including incense, holy water, aloe, silk, charcoal - he definitely needed to make a trip out. It was now Saturday, and in less than twenty-four hours, the time would be right.

He closed the book and stood up. He was suddenly so tired that the room started to spin, and he couldn't force his eyes fully open. He managed a swipe at the kitchen light switch as he made his way unsteadily into the living room. There was no way he would make it to the spare bedroom. He dropped onto the couch, one long leg hanging over the side. He had time for one thought before slipping away into welcoming sleep: he had a place to start.

* * *

Sam opened an eye. A prolonged gurgling from the kitchen had filtered into his subconscious. The smell of fresh coffee got the other eye open. He brought his arm up to look at his watch, then let the arm fall across his forehead. It was 10:00...how long had he been asleep? Then he remembered, and he was instantly awake. He had things to do. He jumped up, throwing aside the blanket - wait a sec. He didn't remember having a blanket. A fleeting grin brightened his face. Bobby could be a real mother hen at times. He headed to the kitchen.

"Hey, Bobby," he said affably.

Bobby looked over from the counter and grinned. "Hey, yourself. Glad to see ya got a bit o' sleep." Bobby came to the table with two steaming cups. Sam quickly moved the laptop and book aside, and Bobby set a fresh coffee in front of him.

"Thanks," Sam said, not entirely sure whether his coffee hangover would allow him to handle any more.

"All-nighter?" Bobby asked.

"Uh, no," Sam replied. Bobby gave him the same kind of questioning look his Dad used to when he was waiting for the rest of the truth.

"Well, sort of, I guess," he admitted.

Bobby looked more sympathetic than anything else. "Find anythin'?"

Sam shook his head. "Not really. Grave desecration, yes. Grave robbery, no." He sighed. "And bringing somebody back from Hell isn't exactly a mainstream topic, either."

"Wouldn't think so," Bobby agreed. "Why the book?" he asked, nodding towards the Key of Solomon.

Sam shrugged. "Grasping at straws, I guess," he said in a deflated, and hopefully convincing, voice.

Sam felt a twinge of uneasiness. Bobby was drumming his fingers and looking at him intently. If there was anyone who knew what was in that book, it was Bobby. Sam hated lying - a lie of omission was still a lie - but he was not about to tell Bobby what he was planning. For whatever reasons, he wanted to, no _needed_ to, do this himself. Bobby looked like he was about to say something, but he sighed heavily instead.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"Crappy timin'. Friend o' mine over in Redfield called me earlier. Three families, all bein' terrorized by somethin', he ain't sure what yet. But I'll tell ya, Sam, I don't wanta leave ya here," he said bluntly. "So why don'tcha come along with me, an' we'll give him a hand. Might help to get yer mind off...you know, for a coupla days, 'til we can get a lead."

Bobby wasn't kidding. Crappy timing was right. Sam didn't like to turn his back on a fellow hunter, but surely Bobby would understand that nothing at this point was more important to him than Dean.

"Bobby, you don't have to worry about me. I'm okay here by myself. Actually, I was hoping to check out the town records, see if there's any history, disappearances, whatever. The usual stuff." It was lame, and Sam knew it. He had to do better than that. He leaned forward in his chair. "I mean, maybe there's something right under our noses that we can't see yet, 'cause we're not looking in the right places. I've got to do _something_, Bobby," he said earnestly. "I've got to start somewhere, and...I really don't think I'd be much good on a hunt right now."

Bobby nodded. "Ya sure yer all right with that?"

"I'm sure. Like I said, we needed a place to start. And town hall's as good a place as any."

* * *

Shortly, Bobby had his gear loaded and was heading out of the yard. He stopped and rolled down his window as Sam was getting into the Impala.

"You need anythin', you call me Sam. Any time, ya hear?"

Sam nodded. "I hear you, Bobby. I will."

Bobby drove off. The car door emitted its familiar creak as Sam pulled it shut. It was eerily silent without Dean, without his laugh or some wise-ass comment. Sam ran his fingers along the dashboard. He had given Dean some solid ribbing about his devoted relationship with his baby, but Dean was one with this car. It was the most natural thing in the world, Dean in the driver's seat and Sam riding shotgun. Sam put both hands at 12 o'clock on the steering wheel, and lowered his head. He didn't want to think about Dean's last trip in this car, so he concentrated on soaking up the vibes and feeling his brother's energy that the Impala herself seemed to stubbornly retain. Sam finally raised his head. He breathed deeply, sparked the engine to life and allowed the tires the joy of spitting gravel as he roared away. Dean would have smiled.

There was one adjective that came repeatedly to mind after Sam left the town hall. It was a tiny building, with a tiny office, a tiny receptionist, and a tiny amount of information to be found within. As a matter of fact, there was no information. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Bobby's home, the property it was built on, or the surrounding area. And not one body had ever been pilfered from the tiny cemetery. He slid back into the driver's seat of the Impala. It was more than an hour's drive to the nearest city of Aberdeen.

The city's largest art supply store was not hard to find, and Sam browsed the aisles until he came across a selection of art paper. There was watercolour paper: hot-pressed, cold-pressed, lightweight, heavyweight, rough, handmade, machine-made, wood pulp, rag; and drawing paper: wood or rag pulp, acid free, slight tooth, heavy tooth, vellum finish, plate finish - Sam was beginning to have a whole new respect for those who went beyond plain-paper-and-pencil doodling.

No doubt it was the frown on his face that inspired a pleasant voice to politely inquire, "May I help you?" He turned to the smiling, attractive store assistant. "Um, yeah, I hope so," he said with a grin. "I need - I'm looking for parchment. Do you carry it?"

"Yes, we do," she replied. "Just around here." Sam followed her to the opposite side of the art paper display. "Here we go." She pointed to a package on the shelf. "It's a fibre paper, hard surface if you need to draw very fine lines, highly resistant to oils and dirt. It comes plain, or with the mottled look printed right onto the paper -"

"Uhhh," Sam interrupted. "Fibre paper? It's imitation?"

"Yes, of course," she replied, still smiling. "It's high quality, very suitable for most art and crafting applications."

"I need the real thing," Sam said bluntly. "Calfskin. Do you have it?"

"We do...but a very limited supply, and it's really pricey," she said, almost apologetically. She took a key from a lanyard around her wrist and unlocked a cabinet door beneath the display shelves. "We really don't get many customers asking for calfskin parchment," she said cheerily. "But customer satisfaction is our number one priority, so we do like to keep some on hand." She brought out several large, heavyweight envelopes, each containing a single sheet of parchment.

Sam pointed to one. "This should do. It's about the size I need."

She smiled. "Just to let you know, so you don't have a heart attack at the cash, this one sheet costs more than a hundred dollars."

Sam's eyebrows raised. She wasn't kidding when she said it was pricey. "That's okay, I need it." For something like this, cost didn't matter; if it was a thousand dollars, he would have found a way to pay for it.

She handed him the envelope and locked the others in the cabinet. "Is there something else I can help you with?" she asked as she stood up.

"I think so," Sam grinned. "Now I need something to draw with."

He finally left the store with his parchment and colours, but not before she had tutored him on the various drawing inks, pen nibs, calligraphy pens, coloured ink pens of every size, paint pens, and coloured pencils that would require a small bank loan to buy. She seemed a little mystified that he would choose simple, coloured pens for use on such an expensive drawing surface.

It took longer than he would have liked, but finally, he had tracked down every item on his list. An hour and a half later, Sam was driving under the homemade steel grille announcing, "Singer Auto Salvage". He allowed himself a brief smile. Several crushed scrap vehicles were stacked just inside, while further in, vehicles in various states of disrepair were everywhere. Some were in desperate need of last rites and a decent burial, but these were Bobby's babies, and if there was any chance of his saving them from the auto wrecker's, he would do whatever it took.

Sam carried the packages inside and set them on the kitchen counter. As much as he hoped Bobby would be safe, Sam knew he had caught a huge break when the older hunter was called away. It would have been damn near impossible to do all the preparations under Bobby's nose. Sam remembered the look Bobby had given him this morning, when asking about the Key of Solomon. He was sure the only reason Bobby hadn't called him on it was because his mind was already on the hunt. The man's gut feelings were uncanny - like Dean's, he thought. It was part of what made him such a capable hunter.

Sam got to work right away. He needed to prepare an enclosed area of the house, and as he was already using the spare bedroom, it was the logical choice. He turned the bed sideways and pushed it into the angle of two walls. He crowded the dresser, tables and lamps as close together as possible at the foot of the bed, leaving an open space more than half the size of the room. He swept and wiped down the hardwood floor.

He went back to the kitchen and removed a rectangular, earthenware dish from one of the bags, took it outside and filled it with earth. Then he placed several blocks of charcoal on top of the earth, and left it on the step. He returned to the kitchen, washed his hands thoroughly, then carried the remaining supplies to the bedroom and laid them out neatly on the floor. He cut three circles from the sheet of parchment and discarded the scraps. He closed the door behind him as he left the room. Lastly, he got on Bobby's computer and researched a list of ten psalms he would need, and printed them out.

There was no more he could do for now, and he had a lot of time left to kill. He read over the lengthy prayers, orations and conjurations several times, familiarizing himself with the names and pronunciations. He reviewed the procedures, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. When he was as prepared as he possibly could be, he lay down on the couch, and placing his hands behind his head, he thought about Dean.

'_I'm going to help you, Dean,' _he vowed to himself._ 'Maybe not in the way we both want, but I'm going to release you from those goddamn shackles. Then I'm going to summon your soul from Hell. The spirits will help to set you free, even if...even if you don't come back. Or can't come back. They cannot refuse what I ask, they will do this. Then maybe we both can find peace." _

He let these thoughts flow through his mind, while the clock on the bookcase softly ticked away the minutes...then the hours...

Sam awoke to find the house in complete darkness. "_No!_" he thought. "_Damn it!_" He sat up, groped for the lamp switch, and turned it on. By the light that flooded the room, he saw that the clock hands read 12:05. He let out a huge sigh. He had time.

He went to the kitchen and flipped on the exterior light, then stepped outside. He doused the charcoal in the earthenware pot with lighter fluid, then set a match to it. Once the flames had died down and the coals had begun to gray at the edges, he took it into the house and down to the bedroom. He turned on the overhead light and sat the censer in the middle of the floor. He lit several incense cones and placed them in the corners, then shook several drops of essences of aloe and musk on the coals, along with a sprinkling of nutmeg. A sweet, heady aroma began to fill the room.

He grabbed the change of clothing he had set aside, and headed to the bathroom. After a long, thorough shower, he toweled dry and dressed in clean jeans, new white socks and a new white t-shirt. He padded to the living room and retrieved the psalm printouts and the Key of Solomon, then watched the clock until it read 12:55. The hour of the moon had arrived. He was ready.

Even though he had left the bedroom window slightly open, Sam was hit with a powerful blend of aromas upon opening the door. He coughed a little, then took a vial of holy water and sprinkled it around the room. He squeezed some into his hands and smoothed the water down his arms and over the back of his hands. He moved the censer aside, and lit five pillar candles which he placed around the outer edges of the prepared area. He turned off the wall switch, and now would depend on only the light of the candles to see.

He took a piece of chalk and drew a large circle on the hardwood floor. Within it, he drew a second circle, creating a band in which he inscribed every holy name of God that he knew. He placed the charcoal censer near the middle of the circle, then gathered up the book, psalms, two pieces of parchment, coloured pens and a square of gold silk. He entered the circle and knelt before the censer. In turn, he held each item over the smoke and recited a prayer of consecration. Then he sat down with a circle of parchment and a pen, and he began to draw.

Sam worked carefully, but quickly. He needed to finish within the hour, or he would have to repeat the entire process at a later time. He drew diagrams and pictures where needed, and paid much attention to the inscriptions and formations of the detailed characters. He wasn't the most artistic person in the world, but when he finally laid down the last coloured pen, he had very decent renderings of the Grand Pentacle and the fifth pentacle of the moon.

In his left hand, he held them over the smoke from the censer and recited the ten psalms, using his right hand to flip over the pages. In a low voice, he uttered an oration to the holy Power, to finalize the consecration of the pentacles. He then wrapped them in the square of silk and stepped out of the circle. He set them aside, then blew out the candles and left the bedroom without turning on the light. He felt slightly dazed as he sat down on the couch in the living room, likely from the strong aroma that now permeated the house. He looked at the clock and let out a long, slow breath. He had finished with four minutes to spare.

Sam rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He had a three-hour wait before he could make the pentacle of the sun. That meant he had plenty of time in which to think, and to second-guess himself, but he resisted doing either. He was still very tired, and he opted to sleep. This time he set the alarm on his watch, and dropped it onto the table.

He did manage to sleep, in between bouts of tossing and turning. He had frightening dreams of Dean being tortured, and of the summoning ritual going terribly wrong. Sam rolled onto his back with a groan. His arm slipped over the side of the couch, and his hand hit the floor.

_Chains...there were chains everywhere, massive numbers of chains...Dean...he could see Dean...'SAM! Please help me!! SAM!'...he couldn't get through the chains, he couldn't get to his brother...__'DEAN!'...they came alive, they snaked around him, holding him back...'__No!!'...he thrashed wildly...'__Dean!'...__'DEAN!!'_

Sam bolted upright, gasping for breath, his heart pounding. Sweat dripped down his temples and chest. He slung his feet to the floor and wiped a hand down his face, just as the musical beeping of his watch signaled it was time to get to work.

The smell from the censer still lingered heavily in the bedroom, even though the life had burned from the coals. Sam took the censer outside and emptied it on the ground. The hazy light of dawn streaked across the sky while a damp chill hung in the air. He refilled the censer with earth and charcoal, ignited the fuel, and again, left it outside to burn off the fumes. When it was ready, he returned the censer to the circle on the bedroom floor. He added the incense, perfumes and spice, and the lingering aroma soon strengthened to its full potency. He washed his hands and arms, dampened them with holy water, and sprinkled some around the room. He checked the time. It was two minutes to five: the hour of the sun.

Sam placed the third parchment in the circle, closed the door and lit the candles. He again consecrated each item in the smoke from the censer, then proceeded to construct the seventh pentacle of the sun. It was a fairly simple design, but it contained a lot of lettering, which he meticulously copied in gold ink. The pentacle was duly consecrated and wrapped in the silk with the others. He blew out the candles, got a damp cloth, and obliterated the chalk circle. He didn't need it any more. He decided on a special place to keep the censer: as far away from him as possible. He took it outside, shook the smouldering coals onto the ground, and dumped the earth from the censer over them. He would have to refill it and scent it a third time, but that was preferable to letting the coals burn away in the bedroom. By evening, the smell would kill him.

It was 6:00 a.m., and it was going to be a long day. He kept himself busy at first, as he had a lot of nervous energy that needed expending. There were dishes that needed doin', as Bobby would say; he straightened up the kitchen and living room and laundered the white shirt and socks in preparation for the forthcoming ritual. He eventually noticed how hungry he felt, but he still could not bring himself to eat anything. He didn't care to figure out how long it had been since he had had anything besides coffee.

By two o'clock, the long night previous had caught up to him. He slept for a few hours, then woke up suddenly; another wrenching dream about Dean fresh in his mind. Sam shuffled out to the kitchen table, and sat with his head in his hands. The desire to free his brother burned through him. He had nothing left except the ritual. It _had_ to work. Each second that Dean's soul remained in torment was one second too many.

Hope you liked it! Narratives can get a little dry... :)

* * *

**A/N:** I have taken huge liberties with the rituals from the Key of Solomon. I just skim the surface of what the rituals actually comprise, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend that Sam does everything to the letter. ;)

I would like to point out that, during my research, I came to realize there is a big difference between _The Key of Solomon_, and _The Lesser Key of Solomon._ I came across instances where they were interchanged, but they are definitely _not_ the same thing. At least half of Bobby's book deals with the invoking of spirits for protection and, depending on your POV, procuring positive things. The Lesser Key deals with King Solomon's trapping and _enslavement _of 72 demons who supposedly fulfilled his every demand. Like Sam once said, 'It's like putting a dog leash on a Great White.'

For that reason, I would be remiss if I didn't include this warning: For those who may be interested in further exploration of the Keys, please do not take this material lightly. Spirits exist and they are not always benevolent.

Besides, WWSADS? (What Would Sam And Dean Say?) I could just hear it. "Are you out of your mucking finds??"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: I had intended to post Chapters 4 and 5 as one chapter, but Ch. 4 had already gotten so long, I decided to split them up. Chapter 6 is almost finished, and it will follow very soon. Gotta see what's up with Dean!

* * *

**Chapter 5  
**

Sam remained at the table for a long time. He wished, he hoped, he prayed. Dean's tormented soul was at stake in this high-risk game Sam was about to play. A year ago, they had time. In the beginning, Dean was stubbornly cavalier about the deal, but as the year dwindled away, the cracks had shown through his facade of indifference. Dean would not talk about it, and as Sam's own distress grew, he could almost understand Dean's reasoning. What was the point? What was there to discuss when you had a one-way ticket to Hell? Dean had chosen to make the most of the time he had left rather than spend a year in Hell before he even got there.

Sam wanted to talk. He wanted to yell and scream about the unfairness of it all, wanted to punch at least one fist through the wall of every motel room they had stayed in. But most of the time he had bitten back the words he wanted to say, and buried his own terror so deep that the pit of his stomach formed a solid knot in protest. He had taken to staying awake most nights, listening for Dean, laying a hand on his to calm his restlessness and nudging him almost awake when the nightmares became too intense. Thankfully, Dean hadn't known he was even there.

Then time had finally run out. A large part of himself had slipped away with Dean, as he watched the light fade from those intense green eyes.

Sam drew in a shaky breath. He would make it or break it. This was his last chance to come through for the big brother who had given everything for him.

xXxXx

It was two hours until sundown. He went to the bedroom and began the preparations. Several items which he had not used yet were laid out on the floor with the rest of the implements. He picked up a short hunting knife with a sharp tip, narrow blade and a black leather-wrapped hilt. Using a white grease pencil, he inscribed various symbols which circled around the hilt from top to bottom. He then removed the pentacles from their silk wrapping, and pierced a small hole near the edge of each. He looped a long silk ribbon to each, and rewrapped them.

Finding what he judged to be the centre of the open space, he drove the tip of the knife into the hardwood floor. Next, he took a seven-foot cord and tied one end loosely around the hilt. Measuring out to five-and-a-half feet, he tied a thick piece of chalk to the cord. Pulling it taut, he drew a circle that measured eleven feet in diameter, leaving open a two-foot section . He shortened the cord to four-and-a-half feet, then to four feet, each time drawing a circle and lining up the gaps, creating an entrance and exit point of the diagram.

The circle extended to within a few inches of the walls. He removed the rope, and pulled the knife out of the floor. He then marked out four regions of the innermost circle, and labelled them North, South, East and West. Within these regions, he copied more symbols. He then drew a square around the entire outer circle, and drew four small circles at each corner of the square. Within these circles, he placed incense cones and scented candles. In front of those, he etched pentagrams in which he inscribed more symbols and the holy names of god he had used previously. He stood up and surveyed his work. The summoning circle was now complete.

For the third and last time, he prepared the charcoal censer, and when it was ready, he entered the circle through the gaps he had left, placed the censer within the innermost circle and exited via the gaps. There was nothing more to do but wait.

Sam went outside and sat on the front step. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees on Bobby's property as dusk settled over the South Dakota landscape. The sun glowed fiery orange as it neared the horizon. He savored the serenity of the moment, then his thoughts turned to the task ahead of him. He was desperate to liberate Dean's soul, but something else had been plaguing the back of his mind. What had happened to Dean's body? Sam now had a hunch, but he had no way to prove or disprove it, and no matter how he turned it over in his head, the why escaped him. He would deal with one thing at a time.

Sam waited until the sun had all but disappeared. Its last few rays streaked across the sky and illuminated the undersides of the sparse clouds with a soft orange glow. He got up from the step and went back inside. As before, he showered and dressed in clean jeans, white shirt and socks. By the time he was finished, the sun had set. He was tense with nervous anticipation. He fervently hoped he would be finished before Bobby got back. There could be no interruption once the conjuration had begun, and Bobby killing him could definitely be considered an interrruption. He sat on the living room couch with his eyes closed, hands on his knees, and his head bowed. He relaxed his shoulders, breathed deeply, and concentrated on bringing forward images of Dean the way he had been in his dream, shackled and alone. It was the only incentive he needed. He stood up and took another deep breath. He was ready.

As he entered the hallway, he uttered a prayer for strength and protection. He lightly sprinkled holy water in front of him as he walked to the bedroom, then sprinkled some around the circle and onto his arms and hands. He took the pentacles, knife, book, and a piece of chalk into the circle. He lit the candles and incense within the four small circles, then lit three more candles which he placed behind the censer. He exited the circle and turned off the overhead light, then he re-entered and taking the chalk, closed the gap in each of the three circles. He stood, and in a low voice, recited a second prayer of protection:

"_Let God the Almighty One enter into this circle. Let all the demons fly from this place, especially those who are opposed unto this work, and let the angels of peace assist and protect this circle._"

He consecrated the knife over the fumes of the censer, then lay it before his feet. He removed the silk wrapping from the pentacles and placed them around his neck. Kneeling, he opened the _Key of Solomon_ to a dog-eared page, and in a somewhat shaky voice, recited the first prayer of the conjuration. There was no turning back now.

Still on his knees, he turned to the East quarter, and in a much stronger voice, uttered the conjuration itself. He looked around apprehensively, not sure what to expect. He waited for several long minutes, but nothing happened.

He let out a breath, picked up the knife with his right hand, the book with his left, and rose to his feet. He raised the knife, slashed at the air three times, and re-read the invocation. Again he knelt, rested the knife against the pentacles hanging at his chest and recited an additional, much longer conjuration. Leaving the book open on the floor, he arose, and with his left hand, grasped the ribbons from which the pentacles hung. He held them up and away from his chest, again raised the knife and turned to the East quarter.

"_Lord, be thou unto me a tower of strength against the appearance and assault of evil spirits."_

He repeated the prayer in the remaining three quarters, then waited anxiously. The candle flames cast softly flickering shadows on the walls. He turned several times, thinking he had seen movement, but there was nothing but shadow. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip, and only partly from the heat of the seven candles. According to the grimoire, the spirits should have appeared by now. He swallowed hard, then proceeded to a third, more powerful conjuration that was sure to bring them.

Sam re-consecrated the knife and pentacles in the still-potent fumes, and sprinkled the knife with holy water. He held them up as before, and in turn facing each quarter, recited an address to the spirits:

"_Behold the symbols and names of the creator. Obey then, by the virtue of these holy names, and by these Mysteries of Mysteries." _

There was still nothing, not a whisper of movement, not a rustle of sound. His heart sped up a little, and droplets of sweat trickled from his temples._ Why wasn't it working_? He again picked up the _Key of Solomon_, raised the knife and repeated an even longer conjuration, facing East, then South, West and North, until he had repeated it four times. His voice was strained by the time he finished. "_They have to come now_," he thought feverishly. "_They have to._"

His breathing grew heavier the longer he waited. "_Please_..._for Dean_," his mind pleaded. "_Please_..._!_" Nothing. He let out a quivering breath. He had to stay calm, stay focused on the ritual. He wasn't beaten yet.

For the last time, he referred to the book. There was one more chance; one more invocation to be used only in the unlikely event the spirits had not yet responded. He raised the knife and slashed the air in the direction of each of the quarters. He knelt in the circle, and in a low voice, uttered a heartfelt prayer to the angels. For the next five minutes, he recited the longest and most potent of the conjurations.

At the final words, he looked up from the book. His gaze darted to either side, behind him, to the shadowy corners of the room and back again, and still, nothing happened. He repeated the conjuration in a louder voice, and then frantically a third time, his voice nearly gone by the time he finished. The room remained empty of any being but himself.

He dropped the knife and slammed the book to the floor in frustration. He ran his hands through his damp hair and paced in short steps. He didn't understand it. It should have worked. He had done everything required, _everything_, in the proper way, at the right times - it should have worked!

He stopped short and grabbed the _Key of Solomon_ from the floor. He _had_ to have missed something. If so, he could try again, start over from scratch. He flipped back through the pages, looking over the procedures, checking the circle formation and the accuracy of the inscriptions, desperately searching for an answer, a reason...and when he found it, every bit of blood drained from his face. He had seen it, he had read it, but the significance had been lost on him. Until now.

"_**Thou must be pure in body and mind. If either of these things escape thee, never shalt thou be able to arrive at thy proposed end.**_**"**

He sank to his knees, and his eyes stared blankly. He had prayed for the assistance of the angels, prayed for them to dispatch spirits who would free his brother. How could they possibly answer to him?

_**He had demon blood in his body.**_

The book slid from his trembling fingers to the floor. His lips parted and a whisper escaped from the tip of his tongue.

"..._no_..."

"NOOO!"

He smashed both palms against the floor then leaped to his feet. His hands grasped the hair at his temples, his eyes squeezed shut, and his words ground out through clenched, bared teeth.

"It can't be that! It _can't_ be!"

'_You know it is,' _the truth whispered to his brain.

"Dean! I have to help Dean!"

'_You can't_.'

"Oh, God...help me!"

'_No one can help you._'

"DEAN!"

He opened his eyes and tears spilled down his face. His hands dropped to his sides. Harsh sobs broke free from deep within his chest. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right, _none_ of this was right -

Then rage consumed him like wildfire. He snarled like a cornered animal as his fist found the closest wall and drove through it. He kicked over the censer, and gray coals and ash fanned out in front of it. He tore the pentacles from around his neck and crushed them in his hands before throwing them across the room. Red wax splattered everywhere and the flames extinguished as he picked up the candles one at a time and threw them with all his considerable might at the walls and the furniture. The complete darkness brought him around and he dropped to all fours so hard that tears splashed directly onto the floor. He folded his body low to the floor as more sobs ripped through him. He had failed, and now Dean would suffer for all eternity because of_ him_...because of what that yellow-eyed_ bastard _had done to him.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he choked out. "I'm so sorry..."

Near-panic gripped him. He had to get away, to run. He scrambled to his feet and fumbled for the doorknob in the darkened room. He tore it open and lurched blindly down the hallway, squinting in the ambient light cast from the living room. Someone was blocking his way. He tried to push past.

"Sam!" Bobby yelled. He grabbed Sam's arms tightly, stopping him in his tracks.

"Let go!" Sam screamed.

Bobby held tight, his eyes wide with alarm. "Sam, what is it! What's wro -"

"Bobby!" he roared.

Bobby would have sworn that Sam's forearms did not come up, did not break his hold on the boy - but suddenly he connected hard with the wall. Sam stormed into the kitchen and whipped his jacket from the back of a chair. Bobby stared after him for a moment, then he ran to the bedroom and flicked on the light. He was aghast at what he saw; the destroyed room, the candles...and the large circle chalked on the floor.

"_Dear God, Sam, no..." _

He rushed down the hallway, through the kitchen, and hauled open the front door. "Sam!" he yelled.

Sam had stopped only long enough to jam his feet into his boots. Before he even knew it, he was turning the key in the Impala's ignition and tearing away as gravel flew up from the spinning tires. He didn't see Bobby yanking open the front door, or hear him yelling to stop. He swerved onto the highway, and with a screech of the tires on pavement, he headed anywhere, nowhere. He just drove.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

In what seemed less than a heartbeat, Dean's eyes opened up to a fresh vista of Hell. The chains, the hooks, and his ragged, bloody shirt were gone. Lilith was gone too. The nothingness previously beneath him had been replaced by cold, hard rock. He found himself sitting restrained against a smooth slab of black obsidian that jutted nearly straight up from the ground. His arms were spread out and up, and again, each wrist was secured. He twisted his head back and looked up. The shackle chains had been driven straight into the rock. It was futile, he knew, but he pulled hard at the chains anyway. Nothing budged. He slammed back against the rock, unintentionally banging his head.

"_Son-of-a-bitch!_" he growled. Would it kill her to put him some place where he could at least walk around, or scratch his nose? She probably had been doing this for eons, come on, where was her imagination.

Dean suddenly looked down at himself. Vicious-looking scars remained where his body had been mangled and gored, but finally, the wounds were healed. At least she had shown him this small mercy.

She had relegated him to a narrow ledge protruding out from an impossibly sheer wall of rock that extended into the distance to either side and above him. An occasional flicker of reddish-orange light emanated from a wide chasm between him and another wall of volcanic rock directly opposite. As he watched, a blinding bolt of lightning split into the rock face with a deafening crash, loosening an immense wedge of rock that plummeted into the chasm. Dean's stomach twisted a little as he realized how high up he must be and he was thankful the ledge did not afford him a down view. Lilith must have this thing for heights. Or she knew that he didn't.

He lay his head back against the rock and his chest heaved in a groan of chagrin. He had to learn to stop running his mouth. Just maybe that had played a small part in his earning exclusive rights to this prime little piece of real estate.

Dean shivered as a cold wind sprang up. It swept steadily over his body until he was chilled to the bone. He had a passionate hatred of the cold and he was sure this was only the beginning. He didn't have long to wait. He breathed out in a long shudder as the wind picked up speed. It whipped against his bare chest and arms with numbing force. It was so cold that his hands and feet felt like chunks of ice. He drew up his knees as far as he could and shivered violently. His torn jeans did nothing to keep his legs warm. Okay, he conceded at last. It wasn't imaginative. But if sheer misery were any gauge of its effectiveness, he'd give her a B+. Damn! This was Hell, not Siberia.

He almost wished she had consigned him to Hell's Chain Gang where he could at least work up a full-out hatred of her, and keep it stoked commiserating with all the other poor bastards under her thumb. But he couldn't will himself to shut out the face that repeatedly pushed itself into his mind's eye, couldn't disregard how it had felt to talk to someone again - even if it was a demon. He found himself wishing she would come back...it was an appalling thought, but one that he just couldn't shake.

The air soon grew so cold that he could take only short gasps of it into his lungs. His body shook uncontrollably and it was impossible to keep his lower teeth from smashing into his upper ones. He buried his face against his shoulder, trying to shield it against the relentless wind. He wondered dully why he hurt so much; why, with even the slightest movement, his skin felt like it would split open while being jabbed with thousands of needles of ice. Most of his body should have been frozen beyond feeling by now.

"Sam, p-please...f-find a w-way," he murmured.

He imagined the feel of a hand on the side of his face. It seemed to infuse heat right through his skin; it radiated in all directions, spreading a warmth throughout his body that he thought he would never feel again. He breathed deeply, his lungs gratefully accepting the calmer, warmer air. His aching muscles relaxed, no longer taxed by the constant shivering. He imagined a voice that gently called his name.

"_Dean_."

He pried open his eyes. Confusion caused his thoughts and his tongue to stumble, while shaping an expression of bewilderment onto his face. Lilith. Sitting in his lap, which, with his knees drawn up, made for a pretty snug fit. Her auburn hair fanned gently back. Dean could still hear the wind, although the howl was less strident; he could even feel mild gusts across his skin, but the cold did not penetrate whatever barrier she had effected. She removed her hand from his face, a hint of a grin playing on her lips.

"Sorry. There was no other place to sit."

Dean's body was still trying to catch up to the sudden shift in conditions.

"Never thought Hell would actually f-freeze over," he stammered.

Her grin widened. "It was your idea," she retorted. "But not all of Hell. Just your little mountain retreat."

Dean was feeling much more alert. "Don't I feel special," he grumbled.

"You do remember saying you'd respect me more when Hell froze over? Well...it has," she chirped, with a triumphant sweep of her arm.

"Well...I still don't respect you any more," Dean challenged.

Her cool green eyes studied him for a long moment. If it was meant to make him uneasy, it worked. "If I were you," she said at last, in a surprisingly calm voice, "I would reconsider that. Sooner than later, for your sake."

She unfolded herself from his lap and stood up. They stared each other down as she slowly lifted her slim, leather-booted foot over his mid-section. Dean then watched as she took several steps, her high heels clinking on the glassy black rock. She stopped with her back to him.

"Why should I?" he demanded. "Torturing somebody isn't enough, and hey, let's face it, you've got all of eternity to do it, but what, I'm supposed to thank you for it?"

She half-turned to face him. The wind swept her long bangs up and away from her forehead and flapped at her short, open jacket. "There is so much you don't understand."

"I understand that it's impossible for you to give a straight answer."

"What would you like to know?" she countered, in a silky-smooth voice.

Dean didn't need to think about it. "Is Sam alive?"

She turned to fully face him. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Tell me, Lilith. Please," he ground out.

She looked at him intently, then walked to his side and hunched down. Her face was expressionless.

"All right - he's alive." Her voice was equally expressionless.

Dean, however, closed his eyes and lay his head back against the rock. "Yes!" he breathed, his expression an emotional mixture of relief and joy. "Thank you," he whispered, whether to her or the powers that be, it didn't matter.

"Now here's the kicker, Dean."

He opened his eyes and looked at her guardedly, not sure what to expect. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe me?"

Dean's exhilaration of a moment ago quickly turned to disgust. Of course. Demons lied all the time. His eyes blazed, and he scowled at her.

"It's just a game to you, isn't it? To all of you! You screw with peoples' lives and never once give a damn about them, or about anything else!"

"I give a damn about plenty of things," she said coldly. She stood up and folded her arms. "The way I am is the nature of the beast, Dean. This _is _Hell, you know."

"Really? I thought it was Club Med!" he snarled up at her.

"You brought this on yourself, so don't blame me if the accommodations aren't to your liking! _You _made the deal."

"That's right, I did. But to save my brother! From what one of _your _kind did to him!"

"Then maybe you should have left it alone!"

Dean's eyes grew steely. "Left it alone? You mean I should have left him dead! Save you the trouble of killing him anyway!"

She unfolded her arms and walked away from him. She gave no answer.

"Lilith!" Dean demanded one.

She turned and walked purposefully towards him, her mouth set in a straight line. She hunched down beside him. "I could answer your questions, Dean," she said frankly. "But I would need you to believe me, so what's the point? I don't see any indication that you would."

"Right, because it's so easy to believe someone whose first nature it is to lie. You'll have to do better than that to make me trust in anything you say."

"Like what?"

"Like letting me go," he blurted. It was the first thing that came to his mind, but he decided to stick with it.

Lilith's face registered mild surprise, before she curled her lips into a smirk. "Now there's a brazen suggestion."

"You know I don't deserve to be here!" Dean exclaimed.

"Maybe you don't. But you made the deal, Dean. The reasons why don't matter."

She paced all around him while he glowered at her. "Maybe I will let you in on one of those things you don't understand. Hell has its hierarchy. Everyone answers to someone else, all the way to the top. I'm not on the bottom rung," she bent to look directly in his face, "but I 'm not exactly Queen Bitch either."

Dean swallowed, clearly remembering the circumstance under which he had said that to her.

"So who are the bottom feeders?" he asked, sidestepping the issue.

"Souls who willingly give themselves over," she replied. Most have no idea what they are in for. People like devil worshippers, for instance." She laughed. "They're deluded into thinking they will have all this power! But what Hell can never have enough of is drudge workers. That's how they end up." She looked at him directly. "And then there are the people who bargain away their souls. No matter the reason, it's still the same thing - they willingly give themselves over."

Dean grimaced. "You're saying we're the pit-shovelers of the underworld."

"Pretty much."

"What's all this got to do with anything?" Dean watched enviously as she resumed pacing.

"Dean, you have no idea how much worse it could be for you. The brutality - it's beyond the comprehension of a human. I have held many contracts, and I did what was expected of me. Got a bit of a reputation while I was at it."

She walked very close to the brink of the rock ledge and casually surveyed the wall of gleaming obsidian and the tumultuous chasm, then turned to face her captive once again. "Power is everything here. It's the only thing that's recognized, the only gauge of a being's worth - and power is acquired by the most barbaric, deceitful, and cunning ways imaginable. It really isn't a pretty picture."

Dean contemplated everything she had said. If there was any truth to it, it presented quite a different perspective on the common perception of Hell. Deep down, he wanted to believe her, but it was so hard to reconcile this side of Lilith with the brutal witch who had gleefully initiated him into the realm of oppression and torture. His brow furrowed.

"Your other contracts..." he began.

She returned to his side and smiled down at him. "You're the only one left."

The furrow deepened. "Why's that? Did you torture them all to a second death?" He knew he was pushing it, but either she was in a very charitable mood, or this was the reason she had wanted to talk to him. He supposed it was both, because she laughed.

"Nothing so crass. When it came down to who would hold your contract, you might say I used them for leverage. I have power enough that I could have simply eliminated everyone and everything that stood between me and that contract," she said, with a toss of her shoulder-length hair, "but, rules are rules. You went to the highest bidder."

"You used them to ante up for my contract?" he asked dubiously.

"That's what I did."

"Why?" he asked, gritting his teeth. "Why did you want me so badly?"

"Dean," she said demurely, "that's a loaded question. First, I need something from you. Second," she helped herself to his lap again, wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in close. "Who wouldn't want to possess the soul of Dean Winchester?" she purred. "I wasn't about to lose out on the prize catch of the underworld."

Dean gave several curt nods to his left, and flashed his best sardonic grin. "Um, d'you mind?"

"Not at all, do you?" she answered immediately, her eyes twinkling playfully.

"And if I did?" he inquired, the grin still in place.

"Tough."

Her smile brought to his mind the image of a tiger sizing up its prey. If she had a tail, it would be swishing with anticipation. Dean just shook his head and a frown replaced the grin. "Look, whatever it is you need from me, sorry, I wasn't allowed any carry-on luggage. And I get really cold and clammy thinking that somewhere down there, demons are lusting after me." He looked hard at her, but she ignored the implication.

"Come on, Dean. Everyone wants a piece of you. Imagine...you doing what countless ages of immortals could not."

"You mean...yellow-eyes? That nut-job had it coming," he said, with more than a little disgust.

"Many would agree with you," she acknowledged.

"Are you one of them?" he asked bluntly.

An enigmatic smile crept over her face, then, stroking a manicured finger along his jaw, she abruptly changed the subject. "You know, Dean, we're wasting a glorious opportunity here. You...me...a cold day in Hell..."

Dean shivered. The warmth was draining from his body; either the barrier was dissipating, or she was seriously freaking him out. Her shifts in demeanour would put a chameleon to shame. One minute she was brutal, vindictive, indifferent. The next, she was pleasant, pliable, coquettish even. She was so unpredictable, and she used that to her advantage. He stared at her, then huffed out a cold breath.

"You're frickin' creepy. Even for a demon."

"Keeps you on your toes doesn't it? Well, figuratively anyway," she giggled.

"Cute," he said drily, then he shivered again. It _was _a lot colder, although Lilith, of course, remained unaffected. "Think you could t-turn the heat back up?"

She leaned against his chest and gave him a devilish grin. "Gladly," she said, brushing her lips gently against his.

Dean drew his head back. "Uhh, hand on the face thing? Worked just fine before, thanks."

"Too impersonal," she said coyly.

"Yeah, I'm good with impersonal. Violation by demon tongue is not an experience I want to repeat."

He immediately regretted his forthrightness. She didn't have much room, but she managed quite well in landing a solid smack across his cheekbone.

"Damn it!" he growled through clenched teeth, glaring at her.

"It _is _what you asked for!" she shot back.

Her green eyes glinted. Her hand slid up the back of his head, until her fingers grasped his hair and she forced his head back. "Not good," he thought.

A darkly provocative smile played on her lips. "There is an alternative, Dean. We could always go down."

His eyes widened. "Wha-?"

"1200 floors..._heck_ of a fireplace...so what do you say?"

He swallowed hard. "I say you're damn pushy."

"Only when there's something worth pushing for."

Dean couldn't exactly protest any more as her head inclined and her shiny, tinted lips met his. '_This_ _is_ _just_ _wrong_,' he thought...except he could actually feel warmth penetrating his lips. Her fingers loosened from his hair, and as she explored further, the warm glow spread.

"No..nongue," he managed to mumble.

He should have been revulsed. He knew what she was, knew what inhabited this human body. He also knew he would eventually become one of them...his eyes closed and he found himself returning her kiss, savouring the heat of contact.

She pulled away from him with a dreamy smile, and traced a finger down his cheekbone. "Maybe I'll be back. This conversation was quite..." she whispered in his ear, "...stimulating." She gave a short laugh and finally vacated his lap, high heels clicking on the rock, jeans tight in all the right places.

Dean followed her movements, then just shook his head. "You're going to leave me here, aren't you?"

"Why wouldn't I?" She winked. "I got what I wanted." The wind began to pick up speed.

Dean tugged at the chains in frustration. "What the hell is it with you!"

She bent down and looked straight into his fiery eyes. "You just said it, Dean. It's hell with me." She straightened up and turned her back on him.

"_Lilith_!"

He had to turn his head as a vicious gust of wind tore into his face. When he turned back, she was gone._ "Lilith!"_ he roared in frustration. He threw his might into a solid wrench at the shackles. "_No_!"

Rage overtook him, and he hauled at the chains over and over, muscles bulging with all his strength. A grunt escaped his bared teeth with every clank of the steel links. He didn't feel the warm blood slipping down his arms as the iron shackles cut ever deeper into his skin.

Finally, his fury and his stamina both ebbed. His hands hung limply, and he was bowed forward as much as the chains would allow. His whole upper body pitched and heaved as he drew in huge gulps of frigid air. He was as close to beaten as he had ever been in his life - at least, when he still had one.

xXxXx

Dean emitted a soft groan and tossed his head. Something had woken him...he was cold. Still cold. Pale light and shadow danced across his eyelids. He half-opened his eyes. Yellow-orange flames. Dancing in the fireplace. She had said something about a fireplace...

He fumbled for the edge of the quilt that had slipped from his bare shoulder, pulled it up and scrunched it under his chin. He closed his eyes and buried his head deeper into the soft pillow. Finally, she was letting him sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay...does Lilith have the hots for Dean, or is she seriously messing him up? Like it? Hate it? Good or bad, let me know...thanks!

**Additional Note: **I just realized that the last four lines could be misconstrued as an 'incident' between Dean and Lilith. It's not, it should be seen as something different altogether, not a continuation of the previous events. :)

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** My apologies for the long wait. Thank you to everyone for sticking with me! I ended up working on two chapters at once, which I was going to integrate into one. I eventually realized it wasn't going to work, so I waited until I had both chapters done to post.

If I have messed with canon in any way, please forgive a sleepy brain and the worst memory in the universe.

I hope you continue to enjoy this story, which is now AU! Thanx for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Sam stared straight ahead, not bothering to check the rearview or his speed. In the last half hour, he had not seen another vehicle on this stretch of highway. Stands of silvery, phantom trees and weathered guardrails reflected in the headlights were his only travelling companions. He whacked his palm against the steering wheel. Dean should be here, glancing at him nervously, freaking out because the speedometer needle hovered comfortably to the right of centre. He should be here warning Sam that his baby had more muscle than he could handle, and he'd better slow down or forfeit the driver's seat. Sam could drive the damn thing. He did what he always did once Dean started snoring from the seat beside him: he floored it. The sleek, black beauty swallowed up the asphalt.

He crested a small rise, and saw the first indication that something else lived and breathed in this desolation. A pair of glowing red taillights pierced the blackness far ahead, looking for all the world like demon eyes, beckoning him to follow. Sam lifted his foot from the accelerator, or he'd be sucking up this guy's tailpipe in no time flat. The Impala slowed considerably, else he may have just roared past the little truck stop. Its floodlights cast a pale welcome mat across the highway, and Sam really needed a coffee. He slowed even more and made the turn into the paved parking lot. Large white letters stood out in relief beneath the low, peaked roof of the tidy brick building: Maxton Truck Stop - 24 Hrs. Shortly beyond, a cluster of lights peeked out of the dark of what was likely the smallest town he had ever seen.

Sam glanced around. In a back corner of the lot, away from the bright lights, two semis stretched out side by side, their drivers presumably packing it in for the night. One lonely car and an older-model pickup truck were the only other occupants of the lot.

'_That explains the lack of traffic,'_ he thought wryly. _'It's all here.'_

Two gas pumps and two diesel pumps stood like sentinels in the middle of the lot. Sam glanced at the fuel gauge. He still had half a tank. He shifted the Impala into park, and turned off the ignition. A wave of fatigue washed over him, and he was glad he had stopped. He vigorously massaged his forehead, hoping to stall the onset of a bad headache. He hadn't realized just how weary he was - or how hungry. The car door creaked open, then shut as he pocketed the keys and headed to the door of the truck stop.

Inside, the place had a coziness found only in these small afterthoughts between blips on the map. The walls, ceiling and service counter were all of softly-gleaming, honey-coloured wood. The tiled floor was shiny-clean, the countertop spotless. A pleasant-looking girl, not more than twenty, stood behind the counter at the far end away from Sam, her arms folded neatly. She was bantering with two men wearing baseball caps, long-sleeved shirts and thin, quilted vests, obviously the transport drivers. On their table were two large coffee cups. A tired-looking couple in their thirties lingered over the remains of a late-night meal, while a middle-aged man browsing a newspaper occupied a third table.

As Sam approached the counter, his stomach rumbled as the need for food caught up with the need for coffee. The girl gave a slight wave to the truck drivers and proceeded to the cash. Cinched high up the back of her head, her long ponytail swung jauntily.

"Hi, can I get you something?" she asked with a smile, which broadened once she got a better look at the tall young man.

"Sure can," Sam replied with a forced grin, sounding as beat as he felt. "Burger & fries would be perfect."

"I'm sorry," she said, nodding her head back at the rectangular sliding window behind her. "The kitchen's closed until 6 a.m. We were a body short today." Her smile became apologetic. "Trav's asleep on his feet in there. He's gotta go home and grab some sleep. He'll be back at 5:30, but I guess that doesn't help you at all, does it?"

Sam tilted his head slightly to her left. Through the window, he saw the upper half of a man in a white shirt and apron, shoulders moving rhythmically from side to side. One hand was wrapped around the top of a long mop handle and the other clutched its midway point. It was hard to tell if he was supporting the mop, or the mop was supporting him.

Sam sighed. "Nope, not really." His stomach grumbled its disappointment. He took a quick glance up at the wall menu. "Nothing hot, then?" he asked, his voice a little sharp with irritation. Now that he finally felt he could eat, his mouth had been practically watering at the thought of a juicy burger.

"Toast, or you could nuke a chuckwagon from the cooler," she offered, nodding to Sam's right.

A microwave oven sat at the end of the counter, while on the floor stood a tall, glass-doored cooler. It's wire shelves held an assortment of milk, butter, cheese, iced tea, lemonade, frozen mini pizzas...and chuckwagons. In Sam's mind, those pre-packaged rolls of bread with bland processed meat and blander processed cheese had to be the worst excuse for fast food ever invented. Upon microwaving, they lost their identity entirely. Too soggy and chintzy to be a decent sandwich, and miles away from even qualifying as a submarine wannabe.

"Uhh, no thanks." He made little effort to hide his displeasure. Beside the cash, an array of donuts beckoned from a covered glass plate. He sighed again.

"Okay, how about a donut, and the biggest coffee you've got?"

"Right away," she replied sympathetically. She turned to the row of coffee pots on the shelf behind her, then back to Sam. Her smile looked more like a grimace. "Can I interest you in an Irish Cream or a decaf?"

Sam looked out from under his eyebrows. All he wanted to do now was get his coffee and go. "Just regular, please." He couldn't even force the grin this time.

"I'm really sorry, I'll have to put on a fresh pot to brew. It'll only take a few minutes!" she said brightly.

It was meant to appease, but Sam's patience was beyond appeasement. He scowled and slapped his hand on the countertop in frustration. The empty coffee pot waiting to be refilled simply exploded. Shards of glass flew out in all directions. The young girl screamed and instinctively raised her hands, palm outwards, in front of her face. The couple in their thirties shot startled looks towards the counter, the man with the newspaper turned around in his chair to see what had happened, but the truck drivers immediately got to their feet.

"Beth, are you all right, sweetie?"

The taller of the two rushed to assist the young girl, who was now backing away from the coffee machine, arms still raised, looking back and forth from it to Sam with an expression of shock and fear on her pretty face.

At the shattering of the glass, Sam whipped his head sideways and raised his own arm in protection. Now he slowly lowered his arm and stood open-mouthed, stunned by what had just happened. He saw everything at once; the remains of the coffee pot, the frightened girl, the startled patrons, the concerned truck drivers. He backed up a step. From the corner of his right eye, he saw the 'Employees Only' door to the kitchen whip open, and a very awake Travis come tearing through. The tall truck driver had grabbed a small towel and was pressing it to Beth's forearm. She was now in tears, and he was assuring her it was just a scratch, and not to worry.

The second driver, however, took a step towards Sam. "Hey, what the hell!" he scowled. "What did you do?"

An expression of confusion and dismay appeared on Sam's face. "I, uh...I didn't..." he began, not at all sure that he hadn't. The truck driver took another step towards him. Sam instinctively levelled a hand at the trucker and shortened the space between his back and the door.

"Look, I don't know what happened."

Travis, however, had heard all he needed to. Sweet little Beth wouldn't hurt a fly, and this guy had done something to hurt her. He was on Sam in a flash, his burly hands full of Sam's jacket and T-shirt, pinning him against the door. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell you did to her!"

Sam seized both of the man's wrists to prevent him from ramming his fists any further into Sam's throat. "I didn't do anything!" he said hotly.

"Like hell you didn't!" Travis snarled, pulling Sam forward a few inches and slamming him into the door for emphasis. A few seconds later, Travis was collapsing against the honey wood of the counter, dazedly wondering how he had gotten there.

Sam's eyes raced around the room. No one moved. Everyone was staring at him, most with their mouths agape. Sam felt behind him for the door handle, then threw it wide open and backed out. He snatched the keys from his pocket as he strode to the Impala, and within seconds, he screeched back on to the highway, leaving about 5,000 miles of wear on her tires smoking on the pavement behind him.

xXxXx

Sam grabbed the duffle from the Impala's trunk and slammed it shut. His hand shook as he inserted the key into the motel room door. Once inside, he locked and latched it, tossed the duffle onto one of the beds, then sat down heavily on the other. He was too weary to hold himself up. He sagged forward, managing to plop an elbow onto each knee before flopping his head into his hands. He ground the heels of his palms into his eyelids, hoping to dispel the disturbing images of the last six hours - Bobby flying into the wall, the coffee pot shattering, the man named Travis slamming into the truck stop service counter - how could he have caused these things? He hadn't willed them to happen, he hadn't even thought about them happening.

He raised his head and wiped his hands down his face, then stared, unseeing, at the wall. Maybe it was because he was so dragged out. Maybe - maybe his emotions were just so extreme right now that he had lost control a little. He would sleep, and in the morning, he would have a decent meal and figure it all out. He kicked off his boots and took off his jacket, then unzipped the duffle and removed a long hunting knife from its sheath. He placed it on the night table along with his cell phone, then dropped like a stone onto the bed. He immediately fell asleep.

xXxXx

Sam paced the length of the motel room over and over, trying to settle his thoughts and keep them from drifting towards despair. He had tried to prepare himself - how the hell do you prepare yourself for the death of someone that you love from the depths of your soul? - but deep down he always knew he wouldn't make it on his own, not without Dean. The more freaked out Dean had become at his 'powers', the deeper Sam had buried his own misgivings and fear. Dean had faith in him, Dean would keep him grounded, Dean would do his damnedest to make sure Sam wouldn't use his gifts, or more aptly, his curse.

So he had pretended that his abilities no longer existed. He had willed his way through the severe headaches, ignored the flashes of chaos, darkness and haunted faces that came from nowhere, and kept his anger at Dean's fate so tightly under control that he seldom slept at night.

But now Dean was gone, and three times it had happened. Three times in the space of only hours his power had manifested, and he'd had no control over it. An inescapable truth took hold of his consciousness: either his power was growing, or his capacity to contain it was weakening. Both possibilities were alarming. He couldn't just walk out the door and carry on, knowing that his grip on this was so tenuous. People could get hurt - innocent people, like Beth. He remembered the fear in her eyes, and it was agonizing knowing he had put it there, even inadvertently.

The thought bedeviled him, until an image of Dean blazed behind his eyes. As before, he was chained, hurt and begging for Sam to help him. Sam's teeth clamped together so forcefully that his jaws ached. Dean, his own beloved brother, would spend eternity in Hell because Sam's integrity and compassion had gotten in the way of his taking down Jake. His pacing of the room became more frantic. Where the hell was his compassion for Dean? Would he do more for a stranger than for his own brother, or his own father? He was suddenly reminded of that night two years ago, when he had tried to will the Colt into his hand, when he so desperately needed it, and he had failed...again.

He kicked over a chair in an explosion of anger. He was sick of failing. He was sick of trying so damned hard and not being able to help the people he loved. He whirled around. The only thing he saw was the knife, gleaming on the bedside table.

'_This is for you, Dean_!'

A glint of silver was all he saw as the knife sliced towards him. He didn't have time to think about it or be afraid. He simply caught it.

xXxXx

Sam lay on the bed, his fingers interlaced behind his head. His control over the hunting knife was growing by the minute. On the motel room wall hung a tacky picture of a matador and bull. Sam looked from the knife to the picture, and buried it two inches deep in a place that would have made the bull proud. He lazily withdrew it from the wall, and maneuvered it nearly to the ceiling above him. He looked up at the knife, suspended point downwards, and suddenly released it. The point zoomed towards his chest, nine inches of razor-sharp steel right behind. It took only a second to complete its descent; less than that for Sam to stop it dead - with a full quarter of an inch to spare.

A grim smile of satisfaction played on his lips. His resistance in Cold Oak had cost Dean his life and his soul. Somehow, he would find _her_, and force her to release Dean from Hell, not just his soul, but to bring him back. He could stop her. Now let's see her try to stop him.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Finally, back to Dean! Don't miss Chapter 7 - I posted both at same time.

Again, if I've messed with canon, I apologize. I just hope this makes some sort of sense! I confuse myself sometimes. ;)

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Dean stretched an arm out from under the quilt, then rubbed his palm over his eyelids. He let his arm drop to his side, but he soon slipped it back under the quilt. He was a little chilly, but comfortable, and he wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. The fire crackled, an ember popped...his eyes flew open at the sound, and he bolted upright. He looked frantically in every direction, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he last remembered. The rock wall. The wind. He was freezing. Lilith. Hell. His heart leaped. This wasn't Hell. This was a house, somebody's home. He suddenly brought his wrists together. The thick, ugly rings of bruised, lacerated skin looked sweeter to him than his favourite pie. The detested shackles were finally gone. Tears unexpectedly welled up in his eyes, but he swallowed them back. He could have dropped to his knees and thanked almighty God, but somehow he knew this wasn't God's doing.

"_Sam_," he whispered. "_Please let it be Sam_."

He took a less-frenzied look at his surroundings. He had been asleep on a big, overstuffed sofa. Two plump pillows and a thick, luxurious quilt had made it mighty cozy. Set into the wall opposite the sofa was a homey brick fireplace. Flames flickered softly behind the hearth screen, casting warmth and light into the dimly-lit room. He threw back the quilt. Although shirtless, he was wearing a pair of plaid sleep pants, the kind he always wore. They sat low on his hips as he quickly stood up, and just as quickly he plopped back down. Dizziness threatened to tumble him over the heavy wooden coffee table in front of the sofa.

Once the room stopped spinning, he again stood up, but this time, much more slowly. He tested his footing on the thick, ivory-coloured carpet. His feet tingled and felt a little numb in places, but they held him upright. Despite the heat from the fireplace, he shivered, and briskly rubbed his hands up and down his arms. What looked to be a sweatshirt hung over the back of a large, upholstered chair that was angled towards the fireplace. He shuffled towards it, gaining strength with every step. When he reached the chair, he snatched up the sweatshirt. He had an uneasy feeling that it had been left here just for him. He pulled it on, wondering if he would ever feel warm again. He knelt close to the brick hearth and closed his eyes, soaking up the waves of heated air.

His need to check out the rest of the house soon led him to abandon his perch by the fire. He felt much stronger and steadier as he padded his way across the carpet and through an open archway. He felt along the wall and located a light switch. He flicked it on, and the hallway before him was flooded with soft light. An open doorway to the right led to a modest kitchen with oak cupboards, a round oak table and two chairs. He opened several of the cupboard doors. They were stocked with dishes, boxes and cans of food - the way anyone's cupboards might look. He made his way to the fridge, and opened the door. He was surprised to find an assortment of fresh fruit, vegetables, bread - even a few bottles of beer. If Dean thought his stomach could have handled it, he wouldn't have hesitated to crack one open, just for old times' sake. Instead, he shut the door and went back into the hallway. At its end was a clean, neat bathroom; to the left, a dark wood door that led to a large, furnished bedroom.

Only one door remained, opposite the bedroom. Dean tried the knob, but unlike the others, this one was locked. He twisted the knob again and pushed firmly against the door. It wouldn't budge. He put his shoulder into it, but it didn't so much as rattle in its frame. He hated to give up, but he saw no other way of opening the door.

He walked back down the hallway to the living room and sat down on the sofa. He pulled the quilt around him and gazed into the fireplace, his hope that this was Sam's doing nearly dashed. Although the home was comfortable, quite lovely, and he had the freedom to move around, he had discovered a recurring oddity as he made his way from room to room. He leaned sideways against the pillows and continued to stare into the darkened room. All he could do was wait for Lilith to show up.

"Dean."

A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He opened his eyes, a name automatically on his lips. "_Sam?_"

He immediately raised his head from the pillow. His eyes took in the softly curved body, auburn hair and jade-green eyes that clearly did not belong to Sam. Lilith smiled briefly.

"Sorry to wake you."

She turned away and walked to the fireplace.

"What part of your game is this, Lilith? Are we playing house now?" Dean asked in a very unfriendly tone. He sat up, still wrapped in the quilt. He brought an arm out from under it and rubbed hard at the side of his neck, trying to relieve the stiffness. He had been asleep for a while, apparently.

Lilith looked up from tending the fire. "You're my kinda guy," she replied in a very friendly tone. "This is my home away from home. When I'm not performing my demonly duties, of course." She closed the hearth screen and stood up. "Like it?"

"Oh it's great. Really." Dean compressed his neck muscles one more time, then let his arm drop. "Except for one little thing."

"And that would be?"

"No windows. No entrance. And it stands to reason, no exit."

"I don't need doors or windows. You should know that."

"Um, hm. So I guess I'm not going anywhere, am I?"

"Not unless you can walk through walls. And even then, I wouldn't recommend it," she winked, while a haughty grin curled up the corners of her full lips.

Dean sighed.. "Okay, where am I? Hell's Halfway House?"

She chuckled, sweeping her arms in a wide arc to indicate the entire room. "Does this look like Hell to you?"

"That would depend on why I'm here."

"Touche," she smiled. She sat close to him on the sofa, her body angled to face him. "All right. We need to talk."

Dean half-rolled his eyes in her direction. "We did talk. And I don't care much for how the last conversation went."

"This one will be different, trust me," she said.

"Yeah, I can trust you," he retorted. "At least until the sheep's clothing comes off."

"I like the visual," she replied, in her velvety-smooth voice. "But business first, okay?"

"Whatever," he shrugged.

She studied him for a few moments before continuing. "Things are really going to hell in a handbasket since you left, Dean. Especially for Sam. He's in big trouble," she stated casually.

"I know. From you." Dean's ever-present sarcasm barely masked the alarm that gripped him.

"It's gotten a bit more complicated, I'm afraid. The bigger threat right now is from himself, and his abilities."

"Can we get one thing straight?" Dean exclaimed. "Ever since I killed that yellow-eyed bastard, Sam has had nothing, no visions, no powers, nothing. You're talking about something that's no longer there."

"I beg to differ, Dean," she remarked. "You still see something there."

"What do you mean?" he asked, with a sharpness he hadn't intended.

"You watched him kill in cold blood, not just demons, but the humans they were possessing. Father Gil. Casey. The crossroads demon. He did tell you about that one? Even you were repulsed, and that scares you doesn't it? Sweet little Sammy isn't exactly sweet any more. As a matter of fact, you don't know if he's still your brother. And you wonder if that yellow-eyed bastard was right."

Dean shot her an angry look. "How the hell would you know that?"

"I've been around a while, Dean, I know the story. Sam isn't the first, but if we're lucky, he may be the last."

"Lucky? What the hell are you getting at? You think because he's offed a few people in order to destroy some lousy demons, that makes him the Anti-Christ?" he said heatedly. "Sometimes civilians get in the way. It's the down side of the job!"

"I'm not sure it's me you're trying to convince," she said evenly. "Okay, then. Sam was going about _his job_ with an indifference you'd never seen before. Maybe with just a little callousness as well."

Dean jumped up from the sofa, leaving the quilt behind. He had to pace a good few steps before calming down enough to speak.

"Indifference," he scowled. "Callousness. Right." He struck the arm of the sofa with his fist. "Demons are the most callous, evil sons-of-bitches ever to deface the earth. They're heartless, ruthless bastards who do nothing but hurt people, and ruin people's lives! So if indifference is fought with indifference, I don't have a problem with that, and if I were Sam, I'd spend the rest of my life sending as many of them as I could back to Hell where they belong!"

Lilith's face remained impassive, but Dean could have sworn he saw a brief flash of red in her narrowed eyes as she also rose to her feet. "I'll include myself as an object of your venom. I'm very impressed, Dean. Your father taught you well."

"Leave my father out of this!"

"It's a compliment, whether you realize it or not. Your father taught you and your brother to hate beings like us. It's made you both stronger. Because if your father hadn't pushed Sam, hadn't trained him, hadn't shown him exactly what there was to fear, he would have turned long before now."

"Sam's already passed that test. He didn't give in during that supernatural showdown thing, not even to save his own life. So he's gotten a little hard-nosed over the last year, so what? You think just maybe the thought of me dying and going to Hell had something to do with that?"

"You're getting awfully worked up considering there's nothing to get worked up over," she said pointedly.

Dean's face and eyes could have been carved of granite as he glared at her. She ignored his irateness.

"Get with the reality, Dean. What about to save your life? He desperately wants you back and right now he would do anything to achieve that. When all else fails, and it will, don't you think he'd at least try? Abilities like his don't just wither and die, they're still part of him. And you know what happened to the others, once they started experimenting. Their powers snowballed faster than they could control them."

"You seem to know more about this than Sam does," he said derisively.

"I've made it my business to know," she retorted.

"And why's that? Oh wait, I forgot. You want Sam dead because you think he's your competition for leading the great demon army. Well, believe me, taking over the world was never high on his choice of careers."

"Whether or not he wants to isn't the issue! His destiny's looking him right in the face. He can run all he wants, but it won't change a thing."

Dean shook his head in exasperation. "What is it with you, with all of you? You're all having freak attacks because Sam has - Sam _had _- psychic abilities? Or are you just pissed off because we did in Yellow-eyes? Why does the death of one lousy demon have the underworld in such a tizzy? Whatever his plans were, they died with him, or can you folks not let that go?"

"You don't seem to know who you were dealing with." Lilith shot him a knowing glance. "Do you know the name Azazel?"

Dean's brow furrowed. "Azazel...uh, Yellow-eyes, that's his real name," he said impatiently.

"What do you know about him, besides his involvement with the psychic kids?"

"He was a lunatic. He's dead. Other than that, I don't care."

"That's a rather cavalier attitude to have towards the one who made you what you are."

"And to think, I forgot to thank him for that before I shot him between his yellow eyes."

She paced a few steps, looking thoughtful. "You know, Dean, I think it's time for a very ancient history lesson. Pay attention, you might learn a thing or two."

Dean scowled at her and petulantly crossed his arms.

"Have you ever heard of the Watchers?" she asked.

"What's that, some kind of kinky Peeping Tom club?"

She glared at him.

"Can't say that I have," he acceded.

"They were the Sleepless Angels. They watched over the earth, as protectors. Then a group of them broke all the rules in the Heavenly book and descended to earth to mate with human women. There were two leaders of this group. One was Azazel. He taught women how to beautify themselves with make-up, for the purpose of deception, of course." She laughed. "The wiles of women. A new force to be reckoned with."

She continued to pace. Dean's attention was focused upon her.

"He also taught them magic, what could be considered witchcraft, even. But Azazel's greatest love was creating weapons. He taught man how to make swords, knives, shields - he single-handedly introduced mankind to warfare. Naturally, the Watchers were punished, and were cast down as demons. Being a fallen angel, Azazel had incredible power. Needless to say, Hell didn't stop him from continuing his weapon-making." She turned towards him and grimaced. "Actually got him fired up a little more. And it got him in good with the brass. Up until he died, he was the standard-bearer of Hell's army. Does that make things any clearer?"

Dean was staggered. Yellow-eyes - Azazel, rather - weapons master, war-monger, and even more dangerous than they had realized...except for maybe his Dad. Had he known all about Azazel and simply not told him and Sam? His relentless hunt for this demon suddenly seemed far more than personal obsession. This wasn't some nut job's dream of grandeur; Azazel was a high-ranking demon on a mission.

Dean let out a long breath. "Okay, I get what Azazel's all about. Hitler was his twin brother. What I don't get is why he would choose my brother, a human, to lead an army of whacked-out demons. Although I can really see where Sam's psychic visions and occasional telekinesis might just be the deciding factor," he replied sardonically.

"How often does the general actually fight the war, Dean?" Lilith remarked. "It's always preferable to get someone else to do the dirty work."

He looked at her quizzically. "Where do you fall into all of this? Are you on the side of evil, or eviller?" He was likely pushing it, but Lilith did seem more intent on talking than humbling him for his impertinence.

She faced him squarely. "If you haven't heard of the Watchers, I assume you've never heard of the Nephilim."

Dean shook his head.

"They were the offspring of the Watchers and human women. One would think they would be beautiful, exalted even. Half-angel, half-human. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it? But they were far from beautiful, they were hideous. They walked the earth as giants, reviled by angels and humans alike."

"Are you telling me that at one time, there were a whole bunch of little, er, gigantic Azazels running around?" Dean asked. The thought was repugnant.

"Not for long," she answered, with what seemed to be satisfaction. "They were destroyed in the great flood, while their mothers were fated to become demonesses."

Her eyes glinted fiercely. "My own mother was one of them. A demoness. My father was a demon. I was created in the fires of Hell, condemned to a loathsome existence because my mother was once seduced by of all things, an angel! That's disgustingly ironic. She was once human, living in a world of beauty and peace. I was never given that chance. So you see, Dean, I know all about souls condemned to Hell that don't deserve to be there."

"So what are you trying to sell me? The whole "Demons are people too" gig?"

Her hair swung as she walked purposefully towards him, her jade green irises aflame with indignation. Dean stood his ground, not knowing what to expect, but not about to back away from her, either. She gave him a whole foot of space before she stopped.

"I'm saying that I, and others like me, will fight for a place on this earth, but _not_ alongside Azazel's followers. We have been leading the resistance against him and his minions for ages, and that includes those who would flock to the banner of your brother. If Sam steps up to the plate, he has a real war on his hands. Demon against demon. Personally, I would fight out of spite alone, but unchecked, Azazel's hordes would reduce this planet to a wasteland in the blink of an eye. No better than the Hell we're trying to escape."

"Then I can save you the angst, because I've told you, Sam has nothing to step up to the plate with!" Dean insisted. "I don't get you, either. If he's that much of a threat, you would have killed him in New Harmony! Unless you're lying and you already have."

"If you must know, Dean, I tried to," she declared, without a trace of remorse. "Killing Azazel's little protege and possessing his brother's soul would put me in a very commanding position. But he stopped me."

Dean's eyes narrowed with anger and suspicion. "You tried. And he stopped you. Right." Dean took a calming breath. "Look, I don't know how Sam got away from you, I'm just thankful that he did. And if that's the kind of b.s. you have to spin to cover your own mistake, I'm not buying it!"

Cold green eyes bored into their warm counterparts.

"I would have thought your little vacation of late would have knocked some of the stubbornness out of you," she said crisply. "Perhaps I should show you what Hell really has to offer."

Dean raised his hands, palm outwards. "Okay, okay!" He lowered his hands and frowned. "How, then? How could he possibly stop you?"

"It's one of two things," she said curtly, "and you won't like them. Either he's more powerful than I am, or something is protecting him. You've seen what I'm capable of, Dean. Can you imagine your brother being stronger than I am? And worse, not knowing how to control it?"

Dean stepped back and ran a hand along his short hair down to the back of his neck, holding it there, needing a minute to think. He let his hand drop and looked at Lilith, her arms crossed and face taut as she waited for his response. He couldn't help shaking his head in disbelief.

"This is crazy, even for you," he said at last. "Let me get this straight. You let me out on a day pass. You let me sleep, nice touch. You tell me the life story of the seriously badass demon who destroyed my family. You kindly inform me that you tried to kill my brother. Now you want me to believe that after a full year, his powers have come back strong enough to make even you afraid of him? Is there something that I'm missing here?!"

"You haven't been listening, have you? Everyone should be afraid of him! Why do you think I told you about Azazel? Where do you think Sam's abilities came from, and why they're getting stronger?"

"That's what I'd love to know! You tell _me_!"

"The blood of Azazel flows through his body, Dean! He has the powers of a demon! Hell, to some, that _makes_ him a demon!"

Dean's jaw dropped. His pale skin turned a shade whiter, then his eyes blazed and a snarl curled at his lips.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I'm talking about how Azazel christens his special children! He visits their nurseries. Feeds them his own blood. And anyone who gets in his way, dies."

She took advantage of Dean's frozen features to continue.

"Remember River Grove, Oregon? The so-called demon virus? It infected only the blood of humans. Sam was immune, what does that tell you? Azazel destroyed a whole town full of people just to see how his pet project was coming along!"

Dean's mouth opened, but he could say nothing. He could only stare in shocked silence as a knot the size of a fist squeezed the air from his lungs. His sensibilities tried to tell him she was lying, but his mind was already sliding puzzle pieces into place and filling in blanks. Did Sam know any of this? Hell, did Sam know _all_ of this? From the moment he had brought his brother back, he had felt there was something Sam was not telling him, and over the past year, he had been so secretive - Lilith's voice brought him back to attention.

"Dean, listen to me. The power of Azazel has been growing steadily in Sam since he turned twenty-two. It protects him now, that's why I couldn't hurt him. And if I couldn't now, when he's just beginning, soon no one will be able to stop him - from carrying out Azazel's plans or anything else he decides to do."

Dean slowly shook his head. "No...Sam would die before he went dark side! I know him!"

"You_ knew_ him. He's not the same person any more, Dean. Eventually, you won't even recognize him as the brother you once loved."

"Stop!" he demanded. "Just...stop."

He brushed past her, and dropped numbly onto the sofa. His eyes were wide, locked onto the fireplace as if an escape from this nightmare could be found among the licks of swirling fire, encircling and greedily devouring the blackened logs. He saw only Sam...the demon blood swirling through his veins, devouring him, blackening his soul...

Dean's hands closed into fists; his jaw stiffened, his chest expanded with each stronger, faster breath. This couldn't be happening. He thought he had saved his brother. Damn it, he was in Hell because of what that yellow-eyed abomination had done, but it hadn't changed a thing. Lilith was right. Sam couldn't escape this destiny no matter what. It had all been for nothing, _nothing_...

"_No!_" His fist flew backwards and pounded into the sofa. He vaulted off the cushion and paced erratically, intermittently linking his hands behind his neck, smacking fist against palm, or helplessly running his fingers through his short hair.

It was unfathomable. That perfect shot from the Colt had only forestalled Azazel's triumph. Sam was the ace up his sleeve, infused with his power, meant to lead his army on earth. And that made Sam a threat to every demon opposed to Azazel's plan, a target to every one who vied for his unenviable position. No matter how it played out, Sam stood to become the catalyst in a conflict between terrible enemies, with all humanity caught in the middle.

Dean suddenly stopped, and turned to face Lilith. His throat went dry. "What happens now?"

"Follow me. There's something I want to show you."

Lilith turned abruptly and walked out into the hallway. He followed her noiselessly, while her boots clicked briskly on the hardwood. She stopped at the locked door and placed her hand on the doorknob. Dean stood next to her, tense with anticipation for the good or bad that lay beyond. He saw a faint glow beneath her hand, then she turned the knob and pushed open the door.

"You first," she invited, sweeping the door wide. Dean cast her a suspicious glance, then with some trepidation, stepped into the room.

What little light there was came from no identifiable source. It did not reach into any of the corners, and most was concentrated near what appeared to be the centre of the room. Dean heard Lilith follow him in and close the door behind her, but his attention was focused solely on the object in front of him. He could barely squeeze breath through the tightness in his chest. He took a few steps closer, then stared in awe at what lay before him. His body, his _human _body, was lying in repose upon a simple steel tabletop. Dean's wide eyes took in the blood-soaked jeans, the wide gashes still very apparent on his leg, but the T-shirt was clean and intact, and only traces of blood had seeped through the lightweight cotton. A lump rose in Dean's throat. Sam, it had to be Sam, had cleaned up a lot of the blood - Dean clearly remembered it spurting from his chest and spraying into his face - and disposed of the mangled shirt. His eyes were closed, and at his throat, his cherished amulet lay.

Dean's fingers reached out and gingerly touched the blue-tinged skin of his own forearm, then he immediately withdrew them. As expected, it was as cold as ice. Lilith came up beside him, and he turned his astonished and somewhat bewildered face towards her.

"It's really you. No deception." She softly answered his unspoken question.

"Why did - How did you do this?" His voice, though not much more than a whisper, shook with emotion.

"It's simple apportation. You dematerialize an object from one place, and rematerialize it in another," she explained. "Common in hauntings, drives people nuts. Because you're a rather large object, I had to get you out of the ground first. I left your grave in a bit of a mess. It's a shame, it was nice."

Dean could not look away from his deceased body. A chill as cold as his lifeless forearm crawled up his back. He remembered. He couldn't move as the hellhound lunged at him, dragging him to the floor, massive claws ripping through his body...this body. His hands clenched into fists.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I need something from you."

"I haven't got anything that you need, Lilith! You took everything away from me." He was unable to gain control over the grief and resentment in his voice.

"You do, whether you realize it or not." she replied. She walked around the table and stood opposite Dean, looking down at his tranquil features. "Do you know why we want to be part of your world? To experience life, real life, in a human body. To you humans, it's wrong, but to us, it's such a gift, one that you have, and we don't."

"You mean had," he said bitterly.

Lilith folded her arms, and walked back around the table, past Dean and towards the shadowy fringe of the circle of light. His eyes followed her movements, causing him to finally turn away from the table. She stopped and turned to face him.

"Dean, I'm willing to make a new deal."

He looked at her sharply, then gave a harsh laugh. "A new deal. It never ends, does it?" He shook his head. "No. No more deals."

Her boots clicked out a few steps before she answered. "I think you should hear me out."

Dean looked away. Anything she was offering could not be good, but he wanted to know just what she needed from him, what she was offering. He looked her in the face.

"I'm listening."

She walked back to the table, and her gaze fell upon the handsome face, so prematurely robbed of its vitality, then she looked up at Dean.

"I'll give you back your body, and your life, under one condition."

Dean's breath hitched, despite the apprehension that knotted his stomach muscles. He swallowed hard.

"And what's that?"

"I want you to stop Sam."

He blinked several times, refusing to jump to any conclusion about her exact meaning. "Stop him...from what?"

"From making the biggest mistake in the world. From using his powers. From _ever _using his powers, no matter what that may take."

"And just how am I supposed to accomplish that, _if _what you say is true?"

Her smile lacked any humour. "That's why I need you. You're the only one who can get close to him. Look, I know you're having a hard time of this, but everything I've told you _is _true. I want you to determine the exact extent of his powers, his intentions, and his current frame of mind."

"And if I do?

"If he's past the point of no return, then as I said, I want you to stop him. I negate your contract, and you're a free man."

The knot tightened. Dean tried to swallow, but couldn't. His throat was like parchment.

"By 'stop him' you mean you want me to kill him," he said, with all the voice he could muster. "You want me to kill my own brother. After all...after everything - no!" He shook his head. "No I won't do that, not for anything," he said fiercely.

"It's your only shot at freedom. There won't be another chance, I promise you," she warned, with equal fierceness.

"I don't care! I am _not _going to waste my little brother just so you take over a demon army!"

"I don't want to take over a demon army! I want to prevent this war, not start it! If Sam is taken out of the equation, they will listen to me, and not count on the victory Azazel promised them. You will be saving a lot of people a lot of misery."

"That's almost a joke coming from you! You had no problem torturing me! Why put me through that, then? You knew you needed me, so you hand me my ass? That's a little counter-productive, don't you think!"

"It was necessary," she answered.

"For what? To remind me that I was in Hell?" he fired back.

"I had to make you see for yourself what thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people have in store for them if this war begins! You had to experience it for yourself, otherwise it would be too damn easy for you to turn your back! You would selfishly convince yourself that your brother isn't a threat, that you could keep him under control!"

Dean laughed. It was hollow and mirthless. " A demon with a social conscience. This just gets better."

"Don't kid yourself," she said wryly. "I have my own selfish reasons, otherwise I wouldn't think twice about rallying my followers," she scornfully admitted.

"You've already made up your mind about Sam! If you're so damn sure, why don't you round up your demon buddies and kill him yourself!"

"I told you, Dean, he can stop me! My power nearly rivals Azazel's, although unlike him, I earned it! If Sam stopped me, he can stop them all. You have to think about this, you have to consider the implications!"

Dean stormed away from her. She couldn't dangle his freedom, his _life_ against Sam's, he couldn't do that again. But to go back, healthy and whole...there were things he needed to know.

"Lilith?" he said, his back to her. "How long have I been...in Hell?"

"Eight days," she answered, with surprising gentleness.

Dean whirled around, his face devoid of colour.

"Eight days! After all that...how is that_ possible_?" His strained voice had dropped nearly to a whisper.

"Don't even try to reconcile the time, Dean. It isn't the same here."

"Here?" he said quickly. "So I'm still in Hell?"

"Not quite. But you're not back on earth, either. This house, it feels real, but it's an illusion. However, your body, and my friend over there, are not." She raised her hand palm outward towards the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Light as mysterious as that where they stood illuminated a steel-barred cell. It was just large enough to contain what appeared to be a young man, who immediately jumped up from his sitting position on the floor and hammered at the steel bars.

"Let me out of here!" he snarled.

"Oh, be quiet!" she snapped at him. "I'll let you out when I'm good and ready to, and not a second before."

She closed her hand and lowered it. The light faded away, along with the young man's howls of outrage.

"Who the hell is that?" Dean asked, incredulous that Lilith was keeping a prisoner here, of all places.

"A reaper," she smiled. "He's been none too happy since I trapped him, his work's piling up, you know?"

The solution to Dean's getting back dawned on him immediately. He had been there, done that.

"So, Dean, I've told you the terms of the deal. I've told you the truth. You've just seen for yourself that I have the means to send you back. I'm not a crossroads demon, I can't do it myself. And now you have to decide what you're going to do. You stop Sam, I let you go. You fail, and you and I are going to be spending a very long time together."

Dean was in mental agony. He lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged, placing his head in his hands, and his elbows on his knees. He felt like his head was about to explode. There were so many thoughts, so many emotions churning in his mind that he simply floundered. He had to save Sam, he knew that. And to do that, he needed his body, he needed to be back on earth. His father's words echoed around and around in his head: '_If you can't save Sam, you might have to kill him_.' This was from his own father, who had loved Sam with all his heart. How could he not believe Lilith, who was telling him the same thing?

Dean had to make a decision, she was waiting for an answer. There was so much at stake, but in the end, there wasn't much choice, and the decision came easily. He wiped his hands down his face, and got to his feet. He walked over to the table and looked down again upon his body, then he slowly turned to her.

"I'll do it."

* * *

So-o-o, made sense? Plausible? (crosses fingers) :)


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Oops! Blunder last chapter! Dean actually shoots Azazel in the heart, not between the eyes. So even if you didn't notice, I've now pointed it out and my conscience is clear. ;)

Wish I could write faster! This story is taking a lot longer to tell than I thought it would - thanks for sticking with it!

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Lilith's face showed no emotion, but her eyes were solemn as she nodded briefly at Dean's acceptance of her offer. A few steps brought her face-to-face with him.

"Is there any reason we can't do this right now?" she asked.

Dean shook his head.

"Then let's get on with it."

She turned and raised her palm towards the far corner. Again, the shadow was chased away as the steel cell came into view. The pale, dark-haired young man was on his feet in a flash and snarled his hatred at her.

"_Let me go! I have my work_!"

She sauntered over to his cell.

"Settle down, your work can wait. Besides, it serves you right for getting caught in human form. You did make it easy," she laughed. It was glaringly obvious there was no love lost between demon and reaper.

"_You can't do this_," he rasped. "_Dean Winchester's soul belongs in Hell. You cannot interfere_!"

She smiled disdainfully.

"His soul belongs to me, sweetums, and I can do whatever I want with it. Except I don't have the power to return it to him. Much to my disgust, you do. So get over it and get on with it! Then you get to go and explain to your boss where you've been for the last few hundred deaths." She giggled. "Hope he's in a good mood."

His face was still contorted and his grey eyes brooded with contempt, but the reaper said no more and stood sullenly at the steel bars. Lilith motioned for Dean to join her.

His feet seemed stuck to the floor. He had been in countless perilous situations and never broken a sweat, but now he fairly trembled. He had barely begun to absorb even the thought of going back, and now, that reality was only seconds away. Sam would be so astonished, so relieved, just so damn happy to see him. And he desperately wanted to see Sam. There was the troubling issue of holding up his end of the deal, but right now, he just wanted be with his kid brother. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, his legs obeyed his wishes and conducted him to the cell. He then looked from the angry reaper to Lilith, his eyes questioning.

"All set?" she asked.

"No!" He looked back at the softly illuminated table, then turned to Lilith. "What happens when I go back into my body? I mean, the injuries - Hell, I _died_-"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she interjected.

"We have come to it!"

"You'll have to trust me. You have no other options."

She was right about that, although he couldn't help the little pinpricks of fear that travelled up and down his spine. She tilted her head at the reaper, as though she was studying a zoo animal in a cage.

"Don't bother fighting me on this, if you ever want to get out of here."

His only response was a low, menacing growl.

"Hmph!" she scowled. "I'll have to soak in the tub for a week after this."

In an instant, a spiralling black mass was forcing its way down the reaper's throat. A raging roar escaped his yawning mouth, when suddenly, it stopped. Dean caught a glimpse of jet-black eyes before a pair of glistening green ones looked out at him.

"Happy homecoming, Dean." The reaper's hand shot out from between two bars. Dean had no time to even think as the palm slapped against his forehead and the fingers gripped his skull. His teeth bared in a silent scream as an atom bomb exploded inside his head.

xXxXx

From far away, he heard a long, wailing moan...muffled screams of pain amplified in his ears and rumbled in his throat...his body...burning from the inside out...he was dying all over again...

He glimpsed a figure, blurred and wavering through his watering eyes. His fingers scraped along the surface beneath him and grasped at a lightweight material that bunched into his closing fists. His arms and legs were held fast; he could only thrash his head against the weight that pushed down over his mouth, and arch his back against the searing pain that drew him back into oblivion.

A deep groan half-escaped his lips before her hand again clamped down, preventing it from developing into a full-out bellow of suffering. His eyes opened, pinched and shimmering with pain, and raging at the restraints that held him down. She leaned in close, her face inches from his. Her expression was as close to concern as was possible for a demon.

"Dean! Dean, listen to me, you have to stay still, your body has to heal. It won't be much longer. You _have _to do this, and I have to keep you quiet! Do you understand?"

He breathed hard, his eyes seeming to warn her away from him and plead for help at the same time. His mind latched on to her words; he had to heal, he had to keep still. He closed his eyes and focused all his energy on relaxing, but he ground his teeth together and bit back a cry with each spear of pain in his chest, leg, side; anywhere the hellhound's claws had torn into his body. "Breathe," his mind commanded. "Just breathe."

He felt her hand slowly lift away from his mouth, could feel her watching him as he continued to fight against the fiery pain. It finally eased up a little and his eyes slowly opened. He needed to speak.

"I -". Even on the single syllable his voice cracked. He swallowed with difficulty, and tried again. "I'm alive...?" His voice was hoarse and dry.

"Of course. After all my trouble, I wasn't about to let you die."

"Where -"

"Miller, South Dakota. Motel room. That's why you have to stick a sock in it unless you want half the town to hear you screaming."

He let out a shaky breath. South Dakota. There was no South Dakota in Hell, that was for sure. He was in agony, exhausted, tied to a damn bed and being tended to by one of Hell's Meanest, but he was back. He shut his eyes, but not quickly enough to prevent tears from squeezing out at the corners. His elation lasted about three seconds more, then his chest suddenly felt like several knives had been plunged deeply into it. His knuckles turned white as once again he gripped the bedcover beneath him "Unnghh...hurts," he groaned.

"Tough it out, okay, big guy?" she said. "They're psychic slashes. They _will_ heal, it just takes time."

Dean nodded; he would have cried out had he opened his mouth to answer. He struggled to breathe as evenly as he could, but his breath hitched at every stab of pain.

"Lilith," he gasped. "What do you mean...psychic slashes?" He grimaced at the effort it still took to speak.

"They were inflicted by a creature not of this earth. Here, they can't last. The injuries, and the pain, are real. You've experienced this before, wounds that hurt like hell but disappear without a trace." She grinned. "Otherwise we'd be able to play tic tac toe on your face."

"We could still do that," he groaned. "Just not in places where the sun shines."

Her eyes twinkled. "Let me know when you're up for a game."

"It's the pain talking," he gritted.

"Too bad," she said ruefully. She raised his t-shirt and proceeded with what was, to Dean, a rather prolonged examination of his upper body. She then pulled apart the the long strips of torn denim and checked his leg as well. "The deepest parts are almost closed," she announced. "The outer skin will heal faster. You'll be up and about soon."

"Hey...untie me," he demanded, as his face scrunched up against the streak of fire that shot through his leg.

"Not a chance," she replied. "You humans have an incredibly low tolerance to pain - most of you, anyway - and I don't need you thrashing around and undoing everything."

"I've survived...," he gritted his teeth, "worse than this."

"I doubt it," she replied easily, then sighed deeply and relented. "Fine," she said. "But don't blame me if you have to spend a few extra hours like this."

She simply waved her hand in a wide arc from his wrists to his ankles, and he was instantly freed. Dean should have known. She really had no need to use conventional restraints, despite her fondness for them under certain other circumstances.

The first thing he did was try to sit. He got no further than raising his head and shoulders from the bed before, without a word, she firmly pushed him back down. He started to protest, but instead, raised a hand and rubbed hard at his eyes, then his forehead. He wanted to get out of this bed and rejoin the living so badly...but he was still so tired and in a lot of pain. He dimly heard the sound of a chair rumbling along the carpet and flicked his eyes open just enough to see Lilith plant herself directly opposite him, her face stern. They closed again of their own accord as his hand slipped off his forehead, his arm unfolding as it dropped lightly to the bed.

xXxXx

Dean awoke with a start. The room was in near-darkness, and it was enough to send him into a panicked fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp. He sat up as warm, golden light spilled across the carpet. He chucked his still-booted feet over the edge of the bed and sat up, gripping the bedcover to brace himself as his upper body pitched forward. The thumping of his heart soon subsided, and he had steadied himself enough to raise his head and take a good look at his surroundings. The room was small, but neat and clean. Besides the bed and the night table, there was a chest of drawers, a small table and two chairs, and a tv. A partially-open door led to the bathroom. It was typical of so many other rooms he had stayed in, but with one crucial difference: no Sam.

He heaved a sigh...and it finally hit him that he was no longer in pain. He lifted his shirt and quickly looked down at his chest, then he eased himself to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the bathroom. He flicked on the light and grasped the sides of the sink, leaning forward and breathing deeply before daring to look in the mirror.

He was shocked at how pale his normally ruddy skin had become. Dark shadows accentuated the slightly haunted look in his lackluster green eyes. He blinked several times, then pulled the t-shirt over his head and let the mirror confirm what he had seen: the slashes were gone without a trace, just as Lilith had said. Every area savaged by the hellhound was again smooth and limber; without a doubt his leg was unmarred as well. His own astonished face continued to stare back at him from the mirror. Then a spark ignited in each of his eyes and a grin played upon his lips, spreading until it brightened the shadows on his entire face and his eyes shone.

"_Damn_," he whispered. "_Damn_!"

He was back, he was healthy, he was whole. And thirsty. He snapped a paper cup from the dispenser and filled it with cold water. He took a few small sips, and finding that everything still worked, downed several cupfuls before crushing the cup and tossing it into the wastebasket. He ran warm water and splashed it over his face. He reached for a towel and buried his face in the soft, thick folds. How often had he taken for granted this simple pleasure that felt so incredibly refreshing.

Just then, he heard a key slide into the door lock. He swung the towel over his shoulder and stepped out of the bathroom, just as Lilith entered the room. She was carrying a large plastic bag and a smaller one that emitted the wonderful aroma of brown paper, greasy food, and - Dean's senses zeroed in - fresh coffee. She closed the door behind her and took a long, deliberate look up and down his shirtless torso, then met his gaze with an eyebrow raised in approval. Dean had the creepy feeling it wasn't only because of the complete healing of his wounds.

She walked over to the table and set the small bag on it, and the large one on the floor. She pulled out a chair and sat down, motioning for Dean to take the other. He didn't need to be asked twice; the heavenly smells from the bag would have drawn him like a magnet to steel regardless.

He tossed the towel onto the bed and dropped into the chair. Lilith pushed the bag towards him with one finger.

"All yours," she said. "Think you can handle it?"

"If I can't, at least it'll taste good on the way down," he replied, opening the bag and pulling out an extra large coffee. He popped the tab on the plastic lid and the rich, heady aroma wafted up his nostrils. The first sip of the deep brown ambrosia aroused his taste buds and left them screaming for more as the hot liquid trickled away down his throat. He was happy to indulge them, closing his eyes and letting his tongue bathe in the second quaff of the java junkie's drug of choice. A blissful sigh escaped his lips as he opened his eyes and saw Lilith watching him with a look of amused perplexity on her face.

"It's sinful how much you enjoy that," she remarked.

Dean grinned in spite of himself. "Heaven in a cup. And all who drink of it shall reap the benefits of alertness and caffeine-induced stamina. Vital to the job," he proclaimed.

"Wouldn't want to let a demon catch you napping, now, would you?"

Dean glowered at what he perceived to be a reference to Sam, then he tore into the bag to avoid salivating right onto the table. There were hot fries, two large burgers - and a slab of apple pie. He looked at her from under his eyebrows.

"You know way too much about me," he said, with a less-than-sincere smile.

"I know everything about you, Dean," she said smugly.

"I doubt that," he replied immediately, his expression unchanged.

Lilith shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, and rose from the table. She picked up the large bag and sat it on the chair. "Clothes. Chow down, get yourself presentable, and I'll be back later."

"Where are you going?" he called after her. She didn't answer, just looked back at him with a cryptic smile as she opened the door and closed it behind her.

Dean stared at the closed door, wondering briefly what she was up to before turning his attention to the feast before him. He was starving. He crammed his mouth full of fries as he snatched a burger from its wrapping. Within minutes, he had polished off the hot food and set the pie before him like it was filet mignon in an indecently expensive restaurant. His eyes lit up as he gazed upon it in anticipation.

"You and me," he spoke to the golden pastry and thick, juicy filling, "are about to get intimately acquainted."

The pie didn't protest one bit. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, the manna from the gods lingering sweetly on his tongue. Topped off with the rest of the coffee, his stomach gurgled in ecstasy - at least he hoped it was ecstasy. He decided to sit out a few minutes as a precaution.

As he again surveyed the room, his eyes came to rest on the telephone perched near the end of the dresser. His fingers were itching to pick it up and dial Sam's cell, but he couldn't - not yet, not until he had some kind of idea how to proceed from here. He smacked his palm on the tabletop and stood up. His stomach lurched a little; he wasn't sure if it was from the food, or the fact that he was embroiled in yet another deal.

He walked over to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Night had settled on the little town. He had a magnificent view of the lighted parking lot, beyond which streetlamps, porch lights, and one visible traffic standard glowed in the darkness. He let the curtain drop and leaned his head against the windowframe. How the hell was he supposed to do what she asked? She could be totally wrong about Sam; maybe his stopping her was just a freaky one-shot resulting from emotional overload. Maybe she was exaggerating Azazel's power. Maybe she was lying and wanted Sam out of the way for her own nefarious purposes, not because he might kick-start Armageddon. Dean let out a long breath while wiping his hands down his face.

"And maybe I'm a ring-tailed monkey," he sighed. He could try to convince himself that Lilith was lying. That Azazel was a psycho who was dead and gone for good. That she knew nothing about Sam and was making up the whole demon blood thing. But there were two things he could not ignore: River Grove, Oregon, and his father's last words to him. The senseless decimation of the entire town, and Sam's immunity to the virus at its root, had shaken his psyche more than he had ever admitted to, even to himself. And then the coldness, the killings...his father knew. Maybe not everything about Azazel, or all the details of what he had done to Sam, but he had learned enough to know that Sam was such a portentous threat that he may need to be eliminated...permanently.

Dean had never been so scared, not even when the hellhound had lunged towards him. The weight - or was that the fate? - of the world rested on his shoulders. He was scared for Sam, scared of going back to Hell, and scared of what he might have to do.

He wasn't even aware of the tear rolling down his face until the cold drop splashed onto his chest. He quickly wiped it away, sniffed hard and slammed the lid on his thoughts. He strode from the window, kicked off his boots by the bed, grabbed the bag of clothing and rooted through it. Everything he needed was there, and he didn't care how she had procured them.

He headed to the bathroom, intent on taking the longest shower of his life. He switched on the light and deposited the bag on the floor. He turned the water on and let it run until steam billowed out from behind the curtain. He shucked off the remainder of his bloodied clothing and felt a bit closer to Heaven as he stepped into the stream of hot water. It might not wash away his sins, but it would sure take care of the little bits of Hell that still clung to his soul.

* * *

**End Notes: **I know it happened in the premiere, but having Dean's scars disappear completely was part of this story from the get-go. Couldn't imagine that beautiful body being mangled like that! ;) I'm staying faithful to my original storyline, and if more similarities do crop up...hmmm...there _is_ one more coming up in the next chapter, hopefully that will be all!

Another huge thank-you goes out to everyone for reading, reviewing, or just enjoying this story. You make my day! :)


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